When We Met
by Jassperr
Summary: A reluctant young France goes to Britain to meet a wild young England for the first time. Young Nations. Some Cutesy Fluff.
1. Chapter 1

Francis had absolutely no desire to go to England. It was wet, it was uncultured and it was miserable. At least that was what he was told having never been there himself. But still, why would he willingly leave a life of luxury traveling the most beautiful parts of Europe alongside royalty to visit some sad little island he would no doubt be warring with in a few short years.

However, apparently, the time was right and could not be delayed a month further. Francis was to meet Arthur, the representation of England. Not much was known about the young nation apart from his name was Arthur and he was somewhat of a handful to deal with.

"Someone told me he refuses to wear any form of garment and roams about naked," gossiped one maid with a scandalised smile.

"Well I've heard rumour that he was shunned by even his own people for being so wild. He's practically an animal," added another.

"Really?" gasped the startled boy, scared eyes darting about the room for reassurance.

A pair of heavy doors at the end of the room creaked open and footsteps sounded.

"Stop this nonsensical hearsay at once, you will scare the child. We need this to go well," came the stern voice of the King as he neared, the crowd of chattering courtiers parting to allow him through.

Francis bowed low and humble but looked him in the eye when asking, "but, your majesty, how will I speak to such an uncivilised person?"

The monarch lay a strong hand on the nations shoulder and smiled, like a parent to a child.

"I'm sure you will find a way. I have faith in you."

Beaming back, Francis had belief in himself and an overwhelming sense of responsibility.

Preparations for the trip did not take long as everyone seemed anxious to have the ordeal done with. Francis himself remained reluctant but was able to take comfort in the tremendous amount of purpose he felt at his mission. Still, he had heard terrible things about the English court being a filthy cesspool of degeneracy and was not a fan of their king at all.

This said, there was no disobeying the will of his own ruler. He was well trained in matters of parliament and the art of conversation so he was confident in his ability to represent his country proudly. Perhaps he would even be able to bring a touch of French sophistication to the place. This was what he had been made for, after all.

Brisk winds swept about the docs the morning of the voyage as Francis stood waiting. There was no doubt that ships were brilliant inventions in their own right but he saw no beauty in them and detested travelling on the things. At least it was a short journey. He observed the unsavoury sailor types ready the vehicle to cast off and called out to one.

"Excuse me, Sir" he addressed a random passer-by, "have you knowledge of when his royal highness will be arriving?"

The man stared at him for a moment before letting out a hearty bark.

"Does this look like a ship for the King? He won't be accompanying you on this trip, my young Lord."

Ice struck his heart at these words. He had never been sent on governmental matters by himself before, he wasn't ready. He wouldn't even be able to gain access to the royal court without the King's guard.

"But-but how will I get into the palace?" he stuttered, feeling the first inklings of panic take root and begin to sprout. The situation had gone from unpleasant to unmanageable rather quickly.

The sailor seemed not to care about the affect his words were having on the boy and continued in a matter of fact tine.

"We are not travelling to London, child, we have instruction to take you no further than the docs across the channel from here. His majesty's orders."

With this he left and disappeared on board.

A command from somewhere on deck rang out, alerting Francis that they were due to leave any moment, jolting him from the spiral of anxiety he was ready to sink into. There was nothing he could do, though, he could not deny his duty. Not as though he could turn around and run home. He was France and he had his first chance to prove that he was capable of handling matters alone, he wasn't going to throw that away and be distrusted in the future.

And so, quashing the bubbling insecurity that was rising inside, he boarded the ship. It wasn't long before there was a lurch as they embarked on the short way across the channel and Francis decided to make the most of the time he had to prepare. Making his way down to the captain's cabin he pulled out some papers that had been handed to him when they reached the docs. Reading through them, sat at the large desk, they confirmed to him what he had just been informed of. That he was to stay in a small fishing village by the docs they were to port at and attempt to find the British nation that was allegedly somewhere in the woods a few miles inland. The people at court hadn't been so far off in their speculations saying he was some sort of feral child. That was all he had to go on. The thought of foraging through woodland and marshes to talk politics with someone who didn't want to be found seemed like some sort of wild goose chase. Things were becoming increasingly more hopeless. At the bottom of the last page was the royal seal, some sort of attempt to help him after not informing him of the situation, and so, feeling a little betrayed at having this kept from him, Francis went back onto the main deck.

The white, shining cliffs were a familiar sight to him but never this close. With every wave that lapped against the wood of the hull his heart beat a little faster. Laying his hands delicately on the railings he closed his eyes, he took in a deep breath of salted air that smelled distinctly different than when they had left. He wasn't in France anymore.

Seagulls cawed high above as Francis disembarked. He looked up to see them circling against the grey clouds that gathered in hoards. Coming slowly down the ramp he pulled his cloak tighter about himself. The sea breeze had become rather more than bracing, now chilling, and he hoped the storm clouds didn't come through on what they promised.

He stayed on the docs until the ship set sail once more, leaving him in its wake. Green, grey water lapped at the boards and he looked at his surrounding suppressing his curling lip of disgust. The whole place reeked of fish guts and he couldn't tell whether it was the area itself or the people. Either way he didn't wish to spend any more time there and turned his back on the oceans towards the small village he could see not too far in the distance.

Francis hardly noticed the rolling fields stippled with light and shadow as he trecked, sweating, down the dusty country trail. The wind continued to whip about him, curling up from the coast as though trying to expel him from the foreign country, and there was a crisp dampness to it.

Nearing the town, the wild expanses of grass grew fences to keep in livestock and the baying of animals could be heard above the sound of crashing waves. Little white houses with thatched rooves sprung up on either side of him with signs hung from poles outside. Some back in France may have found it a quaint amusement but knowing he would have to stay here for just over a week before he was collected once more made it seem like more of a sentence to be served. There were no restaurants, no businesses that weren't there out of necessity and definitely no transport that wasn't either foot or horse. This was certainly to be a trying time. It didn't take long to spot the name of the Inn the letter had instructed him to visit and so, tired from walking with his small amount of luggage, Francis entered the building.

At the bar stood a bristly looking woman, tall and broad like the other occupants of the room. Every man and woman appeared ragged, weathered from hard work and hard living. All faces turned in his direction as he entered, people looking him up and down. There was no doubt someone as alien looking as himself was a spectacle, perhaps even a novelty to these people. Attempting to ignore the burningly inquisitive eyes upon him, the French oddity made his way to the innkeeper who regarded him with suspicion.

"I have arrangements to stay at your establishment, Madame," he spoke with a charming smile and polite tone, both of which seemed to be lost on the woman.

Receiving only an unsure glare Francis produced the paper and presented the royal signing to her. She scrutinised it a moment, eyes flicking between Francis and the letter, until deciding it would do and beckoning him to follow her with a rough gesture of her arm. He followed her up the rickety stairs, hearing a breath of muttering from the bar as they ascended. What was being said was too quiet to be heard but he had a general idea of their topic of conversation. They reached the second floor and the woman opened a door, still silent, before turning to leave.

"I am sorry, Madame, but I don't know if you would be able to help me with a small matter?" he inquired with a charismatic air.

"Depends on what that would be with," the woman almost growled in a thick accent. Francis couldn't help but be a little intimidated by her. Clearing his throat, he made an effort not to let this show.

"Well, you see, I am an ambassador, of sorts, sent from my homeland to find someone who is of great interest to us. I believe you may know of him? A boy who is living in the woods not far from here. He most likely passes through from time to time?"

"I may," she relied with an eyebrow raised. A look that Francis knew well.

He produced a small wallet from the inside of his cloak and pulled out several coins, offering them in his dainty hand. This, of course, was enough to gain her attention as she snatched them up, checking that they were real.

"Well?" Francis questioned, not wanting to seem rude but also hoping he hadn't paid for nothing.

She took her time thinking, seeming unsure whether to help the odd stranger.

"There is a boy who lives in the woods, rarely leaves 'em. Seen him only once or twice. A scrawny little fella. God knows how he survives out there."

Francis remained quiet waiting for more but the woman only stood staring back.

"Is that all?" he urged, somewhat deflated.

"All I know," she retorted as she pocketed the coins and went back down the stairs.

Waiting for her to leave, Francis sighed. That was a waste of money.

"Oh mon Dieu," he groaned as he entered his room, closing the door behind him.

He threw his small bag on the uncomfortable looking bed and sat beside it, dust flying from the straw filled mattress. The room was small with a low ceiling and the beams holding it up visible, the walls white, the same as the outside. Certainly not what the nation was used to but for the brief time he would be staying it would do. Or, hopefully the brief time he was meant to stay. What if he couldn't find the other country? He really did not wish to spend any longer than planned in this desolate landscape. The clouds from earlier seemed to have dissipated as now a warm glow came through the cross hatched window, illuminated the dingy little attic.

Now was as good a time as any, Francis considered, as it was still mid-afternoon and the sun would not set for another few hours. May as well get a head start on the man hunt before it was too dark. Taking a few minutes to change his tunic to one he didn't so much mind getting dirty, not that he was pleased about getting dirt on any of the clothes he owned, he disregarded the looks he was given a second time as he made his way back out the way he had come in.

A line of trees was visible beyond a small hill and looked to be not that big but when Francis stepped inside he realised it's deceiving nature. Trees loomed tall and thick with smaller bushes making it hard to move without getting pricked by something or other. The sky was covered by the thick canopy of greenery and the sun could break through only when the breeze shifted the leaves enough to allow through odd spots of light. To add to this, it wasn't long before a soft patter sounded high above and the wetness followed as the clouds had returned unseen, now unleashing their burden.

Francis sighed in defeat, considering turning back until he realised, to his dismay, that he wasn't quite sure which way back was. Or forward or any direction for that matter as he was utterly lost. In hindsight, he really should have brought a compass, and known how to use one, but that wouldn't help him now. He felt the best course of action was to go the opposite way he had been walking and so turned around and continued, trying not to get flustered, but it was impossible to know if he was going the right way when every tree was exactly the same as the others with no landmarks to differentiate where he'd been from where he was going.

For some time, he meandered blindly. Long enough for the moisture to seep through his hood and his fingers go numb. Tired, miserable and discouraged Francis slumped down onto a mossy log, not caring that it was covered in mud as his trousers were already ruined. Drops of liquid ice continued to fall between the foliage. He looked up hopelessly to have one fall directly into his eye. Both the weather and the people seemed to hate him.

"Merde!" he swore under his breath, raising a hand to rub both eyes.

Now that he was standing he supposed he may as well resume trying to find a way out of this natural labyrinth but as he was about to move there was a rustle from somewhere behind him. He spun, eyes wide, suddenly alert. God only knew what was out here. But it was probably just paranoia.

Another rustle, then a splash in a puddle, behind him again. Nothing there. He began to back away but stopped when there was a thud inches from his feet and before he could turn around he felt something sharp poking through the back of his hood at his neck.

A voice spoke in a rough tone.

"Who are you?"

* * *

Thank you for reading this first chapter and I hope you will join me for the next one. Not sure how long that will take to be honest, depends on how easily it comes to me. I'm pretty new to actually uploading here, this being my second story, so feedback is welcome. xx


	2. Chapter 2

"Who are you?" the voice from behind demanded, the tone harsh but the pitch oddly high.

Francis stuttered, afraid.

"I-I, I'm-"

"Who?" the stranger barked once more, aggressively.

Whatever it was pressing into the back of Francis' vulnerable neck pushed harder when he jumped at the question.

"M-my name is Francis Bonnefoy. I am not from here, please, don't hurt me," he begged, not caring how pathetic he must have appeared.

"Well that much is obvious. Most men I know don't wear dresses," the other scoffed, seemingly somewhat amused.

"This is the height of fashion in Paris this season," Francis trembled, indignant but terrified.

A snort came from the unseen person.

"Ugh. French."

His fear outweighing his national pride Francis kept quiet, not expressing his equal disdain for the country he was currently visiting.

The soft soil around his feet subtly shifted with the light steps of the assailant as they circled to stand before the Frenchman's line of vision.

"Don't move," a cloaked figure commanded as they stepped into view, bow and arrow aimed at exposed throat.

To Francis' surprise the person couldn't have been more than five foot tall as they were shorter than himself. Their hands were small and pale, even childlike, gripping the weapon, arms thin like twigs. The thick woollen hood hid much of their face, revealing only a pair of delicate lips pursed into a stern line.

"What do you want?" they spoke, cautious and defensive. Anxious to be rid of the invading foreigner.

It didn't take long for Francis to realise that this must be Arthur, unless there were an abundance of children running about in the woods. However, he felt perhaps it were better if this knowledge remained hidden from the younger nation as he didn't want him to feel threatened. He was clearly on edge enough as it was.

Trying to make his inflections soothing, Francis raised both hands in a sign of surrender.

"I am looking for someone. A boy. His name is Arthur."

The other gave no emotional response.

"Why would you want to find him?"

He paused, thinking.

"Well," he pondered, trying to sound friendly despite the fact that he still had a deadly weapon pointed at him, "he and I have a lot in common. I am a nation just like him. I represent France."

For a moment Arthur was quiet, considering his next move in this intricate game. He slowly began to lower his arms, arrow still notched.

A short burst of relief caused Francis to think he was getting somewhere with the smaller boy until he spoke.

"Prove it."

"Prove it?" he repeated.

"How do I know you're telling the truth unless you prove it."

There was no blaming the child for being wary, he had been isolated his entire life. And in addition to that there were some terrible stories of what governments would do to captured enemy representatives. Francis hadn't stopped to think about how this whole situation must feel to him and for that he was moderately guilty.

Beginning to reach for his documentation Arthur raised his bow in one swift, trained motion. Francis halted immediately at the warning, holding his arms out again.

"I am not armed, I swear to you," he attempted to calm other, his own heart beating like the wheel of a watermill in a rainstorm.

The bow remained raised, trailing the motion of the others hand as it pulled back the cloak to show the rolled parchment and pull it from the inner pocket.

Unfurling the scroll there was a sharp swish and the only bit of proof he possessed was snatched by a sailing arrow.

"Papers can be forged, they're of no use to me," the rival nation snarled, a second perfect reed already in place.

Francis looked at his empty hand in confused shock.

"But that was proof. I though you wanted-" he began before being interrupted.

"Get off my land, I don't want you here."

No, Francis thought, he couldn't have failed already. He hadn't expected things to go so horrendously.

Opening his mouth to retort the other cut in first.

"Turn around and walk straight and you will find yourself where you entered." Arthur spoke with authority and a hint of menace, "And don't come back."

Turning his head to see behind himself only briefly Francis spun back to only a rustling movement in the bushes as the small figure disappeared into them like a rabbit into its burrow.

Left alone there was nothing more Francis could do and so he about faced and made his way back out of the forest.

Embarrassingly, he found it only took him a few minutes to find himself back in the open, meaning he had been lost less than half a mile in. Realising this he sighed. Perhaps he wasn't ready to be doing this alone. Or maybe, even worse, he wasn't good enough.

Francis shook the thought from his head. What kind of cruel joke would it be to be created inadequate for the role he was meant to play. No, that wasn't it. Today hadn't gone well but surely, he could talk the boy around. He only wanted to be friends, after all. What he needed was a better approach.

Out of the trees the wind howled in a gale and cold rain smacked the boy in the face as he ran back to the village. The streets were deserted and with no street lamps it was gloomily dark for late afternoon. Making his way directly to his room once he entered the Inn, Francis stripped himself of his sodden clothes and placed them before the fire that had been lit while he was out. A pleasant surprise, clearly these people spoke the same language as the French when money was involved.

With nothing else to do, Francis changed and went down to the bar. He recognised nothing on the menu and so chose something at random which turned out to be grey unnamed meat and mush. Grimacing, he took one foul mouthful after another while he endeavoured to think of a plan.

The simplest thing to do, it seemed, would be to throw himself on the other nation's mercy but how reliable was that? He had already threatened Francis and seemed hostile, almost a hermit in his reclusive lifestyle. Furthermore, he obviously knew his environment much better than Francis did so it would be impossible to catch him off guard. With this said, he was only a child. Would he really try to hurt anyone? There was no way of knowing. This left complete vulnerability to be the only option.

Wracking his brains for anything better, an idea crept its way through. A gift. That would help to ease things along. But what. Taking another bite of whatever was in front of him, he shivered as a thick lump of it crawled down his throat like tar. He would give anything for a Crepe Suzette right now. Looking around himself, he noticed that other people were eating similar looking plates of brown, viscous gloop and he wondered how they had managed to survive on such 'food'.

That was it! He had aimed to bring a bit of his homeland with him and what better to enlighten the dreary nation with than his world-renowned cuisine.

Leaving half the inedible meal on the table, Francis went back to the bar to see the same woman as before.

"My good woman, I have a request of you."

She placed a hand on her hip and glared down at him, "what's that then?" she asked.

"I need a pan, some utensils, whatever fruit you have, flour, eggs and butter," he listed, taking out more coins than before and laying them on the counter as temptation, "I am willing to pay."

The woman looked at the coins then over at a man, also behind the bar, who Francis assumed must be her husband. He viewed the coins a moment then nodded and the woman scooped them up then vanished into another room, returning with what Francis had asked for.

"Merci, mon cheri, your good will is amicable," the suave young man flattered with a bow of the head and he swore, though it may have been a trick of the light, that the stern lady reddened ever so slightly.

Placing his ingredients in the pot, he took them upstairs and got to work making a rough pastry, kneading and pulling, caressing the dough like the master chefs of the palace at home. He sliced the peaches he had been given and allowed them to caramelise in the pan.

The sun outside set the hills ablaze in pink and water lashed against the windows but still, the determined boy worked. By the time he had finished his culinary creations it was fully dark. Francis left the deserts under a cloth on the windowsill, yawning. It was late.

Incredibly proud of himself, he settled down into his uncomfortable bed. The day had been long and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Waking in the morning felt, to Francis, like dragging his body from under a boulder, his back and shoulders sore as though he were bruised all over. This rough living couldn't be good for anyone. As he walked around the room to ease out the knots in his limbs he saw a sky like nothing he had seen before. Solid white as indecisive clouds covered the morning behind them.

As hungry as he was, Francis did not allow himself to eat the tarts by the window, instead wrapping them in the cloth that covered them and placing them gently into a satchel he had brought. There was no bath to be found and, by the smell of the occupants downstairs, there wasn't one within several miles of here and so, as much as he would have loved to wash the grime from yesterday from his body all Francis could do was put on a fresh tunic and some trousers and throw his still a little moist cloak over the top as he headed out again.

It was early afternoon, as the pampered young man did not often rise before midday, and most of the townspeople had been awake for hours, going about their work, and Francis was able to catch a glimpse of their lives. They seemed to do what they were doing efficiently but with no joy and he felt a pinch of empathy for them. What a dull life to lead. Men and women worked in the fields, tending to livestock and crops as he made his way up to the woods, some throwing odd glances at him as he went as, by now, word had reached all corners of the village of a rich stranger on a mission. Billowing winds made the trip harder than before, but once in the confines of the woodland the elements could no longer reach the nation and walking became easier.

Francis made sure to enter the trees where he had come out the previous day so that he would be able to re-track his steps and then, hopefully, make his way deeper. As he stepped between the trees the sun shone in a pattern on the ground between the leaves and he took this as a sign of faith, while still apprehensive about the whole situation.

Rambling clumsily through the thick frond he called out to the other, half hoping to lure him in but mostly just to let him know he was there. It had been rather rude of him yesterday to come into the younger nation's home unannounced so perhaps this would help a little.

He did not know how long he stumbled about for but he refused to give up. The trees grew thicker and the going got tougher but still, Francis would not surrender. Now that he knew that Arthur was here his goal did not seem so flimsy and he knew that eventually he would attract the attention of the boy. Time passed and the Frenchman payed no mind to his surroundings as the shadows grew longer and the sky began to draw its starry curtains.

His pace never wavered, good spirits keeping him strong, even on an empty stomach, but he was incredibly thirsty. Having not though to bring a canteen along a clear, flowing river was a welcome sight. He rested by the crystal water for a moment, cupping it in his hands to drink, then rose again to carry on.

However, before he could take his next step, something hard collided into the back of him, sending Francis and the object sprawling onto the muddy ground.

The breath was knocked from the nation and he lay face down by the riverbed for a few seconds trying to regain it.

"What are you doing back here? I told you not to come back!" a familiar voice above angrily exclaimed. Francis coughed, looking up to see Arthur's two vibrant eyes glaring at him.

"I know," he wheezed, "but there was no need for that."

The glare intensified.

"Well actually, you utter pillock, yes there was."

He walked several steps and pointed to where Francis had almost trodden.

"You almost stepped into a deer trap. If it weren't for me you would be hanging upside down from one leg right now so you're welcome. Idiot."

Taking a closer look, Francis could see the loop of a snare just about big enough for a human foot hidden amongst the decaying leaves. Another stride and he would have been caught, God knows how long for.

"Oh," he breathed, coming to a standing position and straightening himself out, "well merci, thank you. I am so lucky you found me, oui?"

He smiled at the smaller boy who snorted, rolling his eyes.

"I've been following you for miles now. You really are out of your element, aren't you?" he commented.

The other let out a light-hearted laugh.

"I certainly am, yes," he smiled at the scowling child, "but thanks to you I will live another day. I don't know how I will show my gratitude."

"By leaving," he snapped as he turned, ready to abandon Francis.

"No, no please, mon ami. I have just the thing!" he rummaged in his bag a moment then pulled out the treats he had made the day before. "Here, for you."

He held them out, beaming.

Arthur took one look and screwed up his freckled nose in distaste.

"I'm not your friend," he spat, "and what am I meant to do with poncy French sweets?"

Without hesitation, Francis chuckled.

"Well eat them, of course. They are delicious."

The other continued to stare, unimpressed.

"You're trying to poison me."

Somewhat taken aback, the older of the two blinked with bright, round eyes.

"But of course not. Here, look," he took a bite of one and swallowed to show he was earnest, "try one."

Still eyeing the pastries with suspicion, Arthur seemed a little tempted. Unsurprising, as every day living in the wild was no doubt a struggle and something so sweet must take a lot of self-restraint to resist.

With a lightly raised eyebrow, Francis held them out further.

"You know you want to," he drawled in a sing-song manner.

The allure of the food presented to him got the better of the child, as Francis had hoped it would, and he took the one without a bite in it, sniffing it, then taking a mouthful.

"Peach jam tart with a light, French style pastry, to die for non?" he enthused as the other chewed.

"…It's not bad," the British nation mumbled reluctantly, taking another bite.

Unable to contain his pleasure, Francis grinned, his heart fluttering at the small success.

"I am so pleased you like it!" he exclaimed.

"But this doesn't mean you can stay," the emerald eyed boy hurriedly stated.

The bright smile on the face of the other dropped.

"But why?" he whined, "I thought we were getting on. You came to my rescue."

A snort emitted the child, "only because I didn't want you hanging about in that tree irritating me for days. And I read your letter. I know you know who I am and I'm not trusting you."

"I thought you said papers couldn't be trusted," Francis retorted, immaturely.

Arthur narrowed his eyes.

"Well my friend said she recognised you and that you were sent by your king and I don't want anything to do with all of that so just leave me alone and go back to France, damn frog."

There was defensiveness in his tone, like he was scared of what might happen if he associated with another nation. It would clearly take a while before he would let his guard down. A while that Francis didn't have.

Crouching down to be eye level with the shorter of them he took on a sincere expression.

"I promise I don't want anything from you Arthur, I only wanted to meet you."

Arthur remained quiet, eyes as green as the space surrounding them, boring into Francis' mind. Studying him, scrutinising him. Wondering what to do.

As he opened his mouth to talk he stopped, looking to the side of him as though someone had just said something to him, then, to Francis bewilderment, he spoke to the thin air.

"Yes, I know it's almost dark but-… No that's not what I think…I know…I know…yes…"

The older nation watched in awe as the other seemingly went crazy right before his eyes. What the hell was going on? Maybe all this time alone had gotten to the poor boy.

A deep breath left the small nation in defeat.

"Do you know your way back out?" he asked, practically groaning.

"N-no," the confused nation spoke, unsure what was going on, "especially now that it's dark, I don't think I can make it out alone."

Another long, accentuated exhale, then the young Brit picked up a heavy looking stick and used it to activate the snare, still on the ground. The wood was seized by the rope and flung up into the air.

"Stupid hunters," he muttered, turning and walking away.

Still unclear as to what was going on, Francis remained static.

The other stopped, a few steps ahead.

"Are you coming or not?" he barked.

The Frenchman blinked, puzzled.

"O-oui, of course," he called, stumbling to catch up.

Rolling his eyes once more, Arthur muttered under his breath.

"Idiot."

* * *

Firstly, I need to say a massive thank you to everyone who read, reviewed and followed my first chapter because the response I got from you all was lovely and it motivated me so much to write this second chapter. Secondly, I want to say that I know this wasn't the most interesting chapter but that's so I can move on to more interesting stuff later, so apologies for that. Hopefully I can continue updates within one to two weeks and I'm so grateful of everyone that continues to follow. Let me keep hearing you thoughts and thanks again xx


	3. Chapter 3

A few steps behind, Francis studied what he could see of Arthur in the dark. He was a small boy. Not just small in height but his frame was slight, with narrow shoulders and thin limbs. Perhaps to the point that he was malnourished. He moved through the undergrowth like a native of the countryside, dipping below branches and avoiding roots that stuck above the ground with a fluidity that Francis couldn't hope to imitate.

After a while of silent travel the older boy spoke.

"Where are you taking me?" he questioned, a little nervous.

"Camelot," the other replied, tone flat.

Francis frowned in confusion, "Quelle?"

Arthur stopped to throw a harsh glance over his shoulder at his follower.

"I was being sarcastic," he bit, "I'm taking you home with me."

This caught Francis off guard. A moment ago, the child had been ready to chase him back to France. Pleasantly taken aback, he decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth and didn't question the decision.

"Oh, that is much appreciated, mon ami."

"I told you I'm not your friend!" the younger of the two snapped for a second time, raising his voice in irritation, "I'm only doing this because it's too dark for you to find your way out now. You're gone in the morning."

For such a tiny person, he certainly carried a lot of anger. Francis made note of this so as to avoid getting on his short fuse.

"That is most kind of you," he was eager to show his gratitude to the nation, in an attempt to keep things friendly.

"It wasn't my choice," Arthur mumbled, shooting a glare at the empty space over his right shoulder.

Whose idea was it then? And who was he talking to?

Ignoring the strangeness, Francis continued to trip along after the other, struggling his way through the landscape.

They moved in silence for some time, the smell of the night and old rain kicked up with every step. Noises from the bushes continually made Francis jump, maybe it was the breeze but his imagination disagreed. He told himself not to be so immature as images of beasts and monsters flashed in his mind, keeping his view focused strictly on the flaxen blond head that bobbed in front of him like a sunny yellow rowboat.

The terrain around them changed, with the trees becoming a little more sparce and rocks of various sizes cropping up about them and Francis could hear running water somewhere not far away.

"We're here," the British nation declared, abruptly stopping by a cluster of large, mossy rocks, "follow me."

Without another word, the petite boy vanished into a gap between the boulders. An extremely uneasy feeling came over Francis. He was usually a trusting person but this was a little far. He wasn't even sure if he could fit.

"Hurry up," a voice from below echoed upward.

Unconvinced but with no choice, Francis clambered, with some difficulty, onto the rocks and studied the crack between them. No way of telling what was down there apart from Arthur. The mysterious void was wide enough for someone a little bigger than the slim French nation and so it did not take much effort for him to lower his legs through. He dangled there, not knowing how far the drop was. Closing his eyes in fear, he let go, bracing himself for impact.

The fall was short but his knees gave way beneath him, landing him on his face, for the second time that day, in a bed of moss. Pushing himself up with a disgusted expression he could make out a small hallway, with lichen covered walls, and at the end of it, a light. Francis followed the light that led him to a doorway, which he entered.

To his ultimate surprise, what he found himself in was a cramped but comfortable home. The packed earth of the walls was kept together by a melding of rocks and thick roots that crept like a mother's protective arms. At one side of the single roomed house was a hand grafted stove of dark clay with a pot of something boiling above the lit fire, from which the flickering light resonated. Some crude furniture scattered the space and several dead birds hung on the walls. The way their glassy, dead eyes stared at nothing was a little unnerving.

"Is this where you live?" he asked, tone not judgemental as he made his way past the doorframe.

"Yes, and I'm sorry if it's not up to your usual standards but we don't all live in a mansion," Arthur was pre-emptively defensive to the criticism that wasn't there.

"No, no I mean to say it is quite lovely. Did you make this all yourself?"

Francis looked at the other who, momentarily, held an expression of fleeting melancholy.

"Not all by myself but some of it," he said, eyes fixed on the bubbling pot he stirred.

Such a house was quite impressive. This must be why the young nation was so elusive, he literally lived underground. That took isolation to a new level.

"Well don't just stand there like brick wall," the irate boy spoke, gesturing to the handmade chairs that were set about a low table.

The older boy complied, taking a seat. A moment later, Arthur came over with two bowls of whatever had been in the pot and two spoons, the utensils whittled from dense wood.

He studied the solution in his bowl, recognising a floating chunk of carrot. It didn't seem appetising but at least he could tell what it was this time.

"It's stew," the younger boy informed when he saw his house guest wasn't eating, "vegetables."

"Yes, non, I see that," Francis fumbled, afraid he had been offensive. "Bon appetite!"

He smiled and took a spoonful to show he wasn't being rude. It wasn't the best thing he had ever tasted but certainly not the worst, a vast improvement on the slop from yesterday. Having not eaten for the whole day probably helped too.

He made an exaggerated sound of enjoyment. "Exquisite!" he humoured the younger boy who gave him an exasperated look.

"Are you always so flamboyant?" he breathed in a sigh.

The French nation flashed a bright grin, flicking his golden hair, "but of course," he trilled.

"That wasn't a compliment," muttered Arthur, purposefully loud enough for the other to hear.

"I don't see how it wouldn't be," Francis shrugged, taking another bite.

They ate quietly, the crackling of the fireplace a relaxing sound in the warm room. Francis tried to think of something to start a conversation but his social skills failed him. It was Arthur who spoke up, probably feeling awkward in complete silence.

"So, you're here on official business," he ventured, clearly unsure of what he was doing.

The other was happy a subject had been brought up and ran with it.

"Ah, yes," he spoke brightly, "my gracious King and government have sent me to acquaint myself with you and your nation."

A look of distaste painted the small, pale face and he spoke with bile in his tone.

"You trust those people?"

Perplexed at the display of disgust he witnessed, the older boy frowned lightly.

"Why would I not? They have done nothing to deceive me."

A harsh laugh came from the other as he shook his head, "that's what they'll have you believe."

Francis was not offended by his words but did take issue with the concept. How could a nation itself be opposed with those who ran it? That couldn't do anyone any good.

"I gather you are not on good terms with those who rule?" he was cautious in his questioning, not wanting the cautiously convivial mood to turn.

"Good terms, speaking terms, any terms. I want nothing to do with them."

His voice was blunt, as though he had become numb to the needs of his people.

"But…you cannot abandon them. That is to abandon your country."

The younger nation only shrugged in reply but Francis was too appalled by the idea of a nation neglecting all that it was meant to care for to let the subject drop.

"But you are the people! You are the heart of this land, without you by the government's side who knows what they will do?" he exclaimed, not shouting or angry but at odds. The thought of France needing him to be the representative he was had been so ingrained into his mind since the day he was created that he could hardly believe that someone like himself would not feel the same.

Unproportionally large eyebrows furrowed into a scowl on the forehead of the nation in question. "I don't care what they'll do! I never asked to be this and I intend to live out my life how I want to! All they do is lie and use you and I won't stand for that so if you want to stay here tonight I suggest you shut up!"

His fragile looking chest heaved with the effort of his outburst as he glared down the rival country with eyes of acidic fire, teeth bared like an animal.

Not realising he had recoiled during the uncivilised display, the older nation gently sat back up straight, trying to appear in control but non-confrontational at the same time.

"Je suis désolé, Arthur, I'm sorry. I did not mean to upset you," he watched as Arthur calmed a little, frown loosening.

He turned his glare away to let it dissipate, "I'm not upset, you're just wrong," he grumbled.

Knowing that an attempt to open that line of conversation again would unleash the smaller boy's quick temper in an instant, Francis kept quiet, one eye left on him. It was strange how de-socialised he was, too cold and angry for a child.

They finished eating without another word and when they were done Arthur pointed at a bed, carved into the wall like a shelf.

"That's where you can sleep," he said.

"Oui, merci," Francis muttered with a small smile, a little awkward. Thinking of how to make things amicable again he remembered something from earlier. "You know I have another of the tarts I made. I do not want it. Perhaps you would like some desert?"

Clearing away the bowls, Arthur spoke without looking at Francis.

"No thank you. But you can leave it on the table for my friends."

Truth be told there was something about Arthur that made the older nation very nervous. The way he spoke to thins air and had such spontaneous outbursts. Maybe there was something wrong with him. All Francis knew was that he would be sleeping lightly tonight.

He took the food from his satchel, still over his shoulder, and left it on the table. "I hope they enjoy it," he played along with the fantasy.

"They say thank you," the other spoke for his imaginary friends.

Francis only nodded and smiled uneasily to keep him pleased.

The bed turned out to actually be quite comfortable, a mattress of dry moss and a worn but warm blanket of thick wool, clearly made by human hand with much care. Arthur kept the fire burning so the room would not drop back to its subterranean temperature and climbed into his own bed of the same fashion. Strange of there to be two beds when the child lived alone, Francis considered.

"Bonne nuit," he called out, closing his eyes.

"Speak English," was the harsh bite he heard in return.

Although he was wary of the smaller boy, the tiredness of trecking through the woods all day got the better of him and Francis was soon drifting away to sleep. As his eyes dropped shut he thought of how he could get Arthur to like him. Obviously, he couldn't force him but there had to be some way of becoming his friend, rather than someone he barely tolerated. No doubt the feral child not five feet from himself wasn't going to change his beliefs over a stranger but there had to be something Francis could do to be seen in a more favourable light.

White morning sun shone through the dusty air from a hole high up the wall that Francis had not previously noted. It illuminated the small home nicely and in his still foggy state he could have sworn he had woken in a folktale. The bed was warm and he dreaded to rise from it but remembering the events of last night he did not wish to take advantage of the hospitality he'd been shown and so sat up stretching deeply.

Looking over to the other bed Francis saw it empty and wondered what the time was. He felt awkward left alone in someone else's house and so dropped from the bed and made his way to the exit, hopefully Arthur wasn't far away or he would just have to sit and wait until he came back. On his way, he saw the food left on the table the night before had gone and assumed Arthur must have eaten it. There were jagged rock steps leading up to the opening which he climbed, failing to look dignified in doing so, and came out into the small cleared area. The fresh air was wonderfully crisp upon his sleep stained face and the brightness swept his mind clear. It wasn't cold, per say, but the warmth of daytime had yet to set in. It was nice.

As Francis stood, taking in the scenery, a light noise caught his ear. Something high and sweet, the trilling of a flute. Although faint the music was not distorted enough to be far away and so the young nation tracked it through the glade, the slosh of water also becoming louder in the direction he travelled. Before long the ground became softer and greener and from behind a slight incline there emerged a spring, the water like mirrored crystal with ripples lacing its surface. The reeds at its sides housed tens of shimmering dragonflies that added to the melody of gentle trickling and instrumental song. On the springs bank sat Arthur, flute raised to his rosy lips as they blew out a tune, simple but like nothing Francis had heard before. His eyelids rested mostly closed in a peaceful expression that the other had not yet seen adorning his face. He watched from behind some dew-covered shrubs while the younger boy played, hair rustling like the leaves all around in the breeze, tiny frame engulfed in chalky steam that rose from the damp grass. There was something almost angelic about him, so at one with his surroundings in a way Francis had never been; there was no doubt he would be a great nation if he only wanted to be.

Arthur lowered the flute from his face, staying seated with that same tranquil vacancy in his expression. Although he could have stayed in that quiet moment a thousand years longer, Francis felt he had better approach, if at least to say good morning.

He made his way behind the other, his steps concealed by the lapping of the spring. "That was beautiful, where did you learn it?"

To Francis' amusement, Arthur had been completely oblivious as to his presence and jumped nearly out of his skin on hearing the compliment.

"WH- When did you get here?!" he sputtered, staring up with startled eyes, green as the woods themselves.

The French nation had to supress a chuckle at his skittishness, raising a dainty hand to his mouth to cover his smile, "Sorry, I did not mean to startle you. But I suppose we are even for your introduction now," he quipped.

A glare was thrown his way as he planted himself beside the smaller boy, with vague grumblings to match.

"So where did you learn to do that?" he asked again, genuinely interested as he studied the undersized instrument. It was carved from some sort of light wood with intricate detailing along the sides, "And where did you get it?"

Arthur rolled the flute around in his fingers, looking at it himself.

"I made it," he stated, "and my friends taught me how."

"That is very impressive," he flattered, meaning it whole-heartedly, "your friends are wonderful musicians as, are you."

Shock seemed to flash momentarily across the features of the British nation, then scepticism.

"You believe me?" he queried quizzically.

Not sure of how to answer, the older boy was afraid of ruining the placid tone of the morning by saying something wrong.

"I believe you have friends," he acknowledged cautiously, "why would you not?"

Caterpillar-like eyebrows knitted themselves into a light frown that seemed to be their default position.

"Do you see them?" the young boy interrogated, in all seriousness.

Francis let out a breezy laugh to hopefully mask his blatant lie, "but of course, they are right next to you, oui?"

Seeing right through him, Arthur narrowed his eyes, "what are they then?"

Realizing he had been overconfident in his lying ability, Francis made a logical guess, "Umm…people?"

"No," the other stated, "you're a liar."

"I would be offended if you weren't right," the blue-eyed nation accepted good naturedly, "what are they then?"

That frown appeared once more, as the other seemed to become defensive of himself for some reason, "I'm not telling you."

"Oh, come on," Francis chided, "why not?"

Arthur drew into himself and turned his attention to a stick on the ground, fiddling with it to avoid eye contact. "It will get me in trouble," he muttered with a childish innocence, "and you won't believe me anyway."

"What if I promise to not tell a single soul?" Francis coerced, feeling like a troublesome older sibling "please?"

He watched the inner debate his companion was having as thoughts crossed his expressive face, and eventually he spoke.

"They're fairies."

Now Francis laughed for real, a snort escaping his lips before he caught himself and swiftly apologised, "je suis desole, mon cher, I did not mean to laugh so."

The other growled in frustration, pale hands balling into fists.

"I said you wouldn't believe me!" fumed the angered child, "No one ever does!"

"To be fair it is not easily believable," the older boy patronised, still smiling.

"But there's one here right now, I'm not lying!"

Francis only chuckled again, shaking his head with an amused expression.

"Well I can prove it!" Arthur snapped.

Rolling to kneel in front of the disbelieving Frenchman, he placed his cold fingertips on the other's temples. They made eye contact for a moment, Francis' cyan gaze questioning and Arthur's determined, before his lids screwed tightly shut in concentration.

At first all this action did was secure Francis' opinion of the other as a lunatic but slowly something began to change. The world that appeared so real was almost stripped back revealing a secret layer where the light was brighter, the shadows darker, the air clearer.

"Do you see her," Arthur's strained voice sounded.

He was about to ask who but did not have to when, from behind the other's shoulder, there came a tiny woman. Her skin glowed in soft phosphorescence, a pair of glass-like wings beating in a blur at her back. There was nothing inhuman to her other than those wings and her size but in his heart Francis also knew that no human could be so beautiful. Her delicate features were chiselled from ivory, every one perfect. She smiled at him, her lips moving but no sound reached his ears.

Knowing that Francis could not hear the fairy, Arthur spoke for her. "She says she recognises you from some years ago but you're a lot bigger now."

The smile upon her miniature lips was a warm one, sunshine and flowers in her face. She settled on the Briton's outstretched arm, wings lying flat against her back. Francis had no idea how to respond for a short while, too astounded to make a noise.

"What is her name?" Francis spoke, eventually, in gentle awe, gaze fixed on the creature inches from him.

"Alwin," Arthur interpreted as her lips moved again and a look of humoured mischief came to her eyes, "and she says she forgives you for not believing in her."

A dazed smile curled the older boy's lips upward as he watched the living myth in a state of bewilderment. He had heard stories from his homeland's villages about these kinds of beings but never believed them. They were only old wives' tales; however, he had loved the fables of beautiful, immortal, or evil humanoid things hidden from common sight.

"Could you tell her it is a pleasure to meet her and she is truly the most mesmerising thing I have ever laid eyes on," he whispered aghast.

"She can still hear you, you idiot," Arthur tutted.

A soundless giggle shook the miniscule body and she hid her sweet mouth behind a hand. She looked about to speak but vanished from sight when the Arthur lowered his hands.

Francis continued to watch the place she had been, "is she still here? Where she was?"

"Of course she is," the other replied like it was obvious.

Still smiling, the French nation felt as though all he knew had been only half of a picture but now he had been shown the rest. He looked around but found nothing different. "Is she the only one or are there other's? Can you show me more?"

Turning his attention to the other he realised how tired he suddenly looked.

"Not at the moment," Arthur spoke, "it takes a lot of concentration. And if you tell anyone about that I will kill you."

"I swear I will not breathe a word if you do not wish me to but why not, may I ask? What you can do, it is amazing."

Arthur moved to be sat facing the water once more and gazed over its placid surface.

"You may think so but the church doesn't take so kindly to witches," he said with a sneer in his voice.

Francis shook his head and looked at the other from the side.

"That was not witchery, mon cher, there is no evil in such magic."

The side of one rosy lip turned upward in a suppressed grin on the opaque face of the smaller nation, the light of morning gracing his cheeks to expose the faint freckles upon them.

"How can you do that?" the Frenchman asked, intrigued by this new world.

Shaking his head slightly, Arthur glanced briefly in the other's direction.

"I don't know," he played with the hem of his heavy woollen cape, "my mother could do it and she showed me so I suppose I got it from her."

Confused, Francis frowned, tilting his head like a puppy. "Mother?"

Not sensing the confusion, Arthur carried on speaking in a thoughtful manner.

"I've never met anyone else who can see things like I do. No one ever believes me."

A hint of sadness traced his words but Francis was more interested in what he had said beforehand.

"You have a-" he began but was cut off by a hand covering his mouth.

Concerned emerald eyes stared at a space of invisibly inhabited air and the younger boy sprung to his feet, dragging the other with him behind a bush.

Parting his lips, Francis was shushed immediately by his companion and a moment later human voices could be heard not far off, coming closer.

* * *

I'll be honest, that was really difficult and kind of boring to write and apologies it took me so long but hopefully the next one will come out faster. As always reviews are welcome and I hope you enjoyed. xx

Alwin - A wise fairy/elf friend. (I do my research)


	4. Chapter 4

The calloused hand covering Francis' mouth became clammy as footsteps drew nearer. Arthur's eyes darted about like a deer through the thicket, on alert. He seemed prepared for flight rather than fight, although his other hand did hover over the hilt of a miniature pocket knife that Francis could now see poking from the inside of his boot.

Squirming his face out of the tense grip the French nation whispered close to the others' ear, "what is wrong? They are only people."

He was sharply hushed once more as disembodied voices came close enough to hear clearly, there were three distinguishable, all male.

"Has to be here somewhere," one spoke with more thrashing of leaves as they approached.

"Who knows if he's even out here, this could be a wild goose chase," said another, now almost on top of them.

The pair peered through the branches, Francis curious but Arthur ready to sprint in an instant. They were men from the village, that much was clear from their sun browned faces and strong frames. All three carried various tools that they clearly intended to use as weapons. Shifting in his squatted position, Francis' heartbeat picked up when they stopped centimetres from the shrub they hid in.

"He has to be along the river somewhere, it's the only water source in the forest," the gravelly voice of one man spoke, "it's like hunting anything else."

"But what if she was lying? This all seems rather far fetched," another hesitated.

Looking over at Arthur, the older boy saw his face pallid with worry, eyes wide and staring. A frightened rabbit in its burrow.

"If there's a reward in it it's worth a look," the first man convinced them as they began to move on, steps heavy.

Francis hadn't realised he had been holding his breath until he let the air free from his lungs, remaining still until the men were out of sight. They could still be heard marching through the undergrowth, their voices protruding the still calmness of their surroundings but their words lost to the breeze.

Turning to his companion, expecting the same relieved smile he expressed, he had barely made eye contact before his nose stung with the impact of a tiny fist.

"Traitor!" came Arthur's hushed yell as he stood to glare down furiously at the boy clutching his face in pain.

The sting turning into a deep throb, Francis pulled a hand away, relieved to see no blood, but still shocked, and fairly angry, at the gesture.

"What have I done now?!" he raised his voice and stood to be taller than the child, not meaning to intimidate but unable to hold back his irritation.

However, the smaller boy wasn't the least bit remorseful, continuing to shoot fire with his eyes as he spat in disgust, "I knew I couldn't trust you! You're a traitor and a liar!"

"I have not lied to you once since I met you! I have no clue what you are talking about!"

A finger was pointed in his face as Arthur only grew more enraged, his switchblade temper in action once again.

"Don't insult my intelligence," he warned, "those men are looking for me and it's your fault!"

"How?" Francis demanded, arms folded. He really was beginning to grow tired of this boy's constant insults and had to refrain himself from throwing one back.

"You come over here and start telling them there's a person that the king is looking for somewhere around, of course they're going to come looking for me!" he all but screamed, not only fury in his tone but a hint of panic also.

"Wait," the French nation paused, anger dissipating somewhat, "your king is looking for you? He does not know you are here?"

The other snarled in his direction, "well of course he doesn't! There's been a bounty on my head for months and now you're going to turn me over to gain his favour, aren't you?"

Sighing heavily, Francis rubbed his sore nose with a long, pale finger, flinching as he felt the swelling already setting in. He couldn't show frustration now, but it seemed to be one misunderstanding after another with this child. It really was draining.

"That is not the case, Arthur," he groaned.

"So, you're saying you didn't tell them I was here?" a heavy, sceptical eyebrow was raised and Francis realised that he was right about at least that.

"Yes, I am the one that may have informed someone you are here," he admitted begrudgingly, "but it was by accident. I had no idea you were being looked for, you must trust me."

"Not looked for, hunted. You heard them, they'll drag me to the palace, kicking and screaming, just for a reward. How can I trust you when my own people would do that to me!"

He had a point. It seemed there was a reason for all this mistrust and wariness after all and he had no idea how to convince him otherwise.

Defeated, the Frenchman's shoulders slumped. "I do not know what to say to you," he muttered, shaking his head, "it was an accident."

All he got in return for his explanation, however, was the same furious gaze. He had no idea how to recover from this and knowing he had failed so soon in his mission was a ball of lead that settled in Francis' stomach, weighing with the sense of shame he deserved. How could he return home and explain that he had not only made a terrible impression, but caused a deep-seated mistrust between the two of them? Hopefully, he would figure something out back at the inn, as he had last time, but he knew when a battle was lost.

Heavy-hearted, he gave up, "I will leave you alone."

As he was about to turn and leave the stern tone of the other stopped him in his tracks.

"I can't let you go," Arthur halted him before he could move, "what if you go back and tell them where I am? I can't let you do that."

The two stood watching each other a minute.

"So, what do you propose I do?" the older boy asked, not sure why he was waiting for orders.

Face showing his thinking, Arthur took a moment before he replied, "you'll have to stay here, where I can make sure you don't give me up. Until you go back home, at least."

Francis blinked, "are you saying you are holding me hostage?" he asked, dubious of what was happening.

"Not hostage just…captive…" the Brit trailed off, as though he had not thought this plan through thoroughly, which he probably had not. At the incredulous look he was given, he continued in his defence. "I don't know if it was an accident or not but, like I said, how can I trust you?"

"Alright," Francis shrugged, nonchalantly.

He easily could have walked away and gone back to the inn but if he did that his mission would be over and he'd have failed. Staying with Arthur meant he could regain trust and carry on. It wouldn't be easy but he appreciated a challenge.

Side-eyeing the older boy, Arthur furrowed his brow. "Alright? You don't seem to mind. I'm holding you against your will, you realise."

The Frenchman simply smiled, his anger from earlier forgotten.

"One should always make the best of their situation, non?" he chirped, "so what now?"

* * *

Back inside the little natural bunker, both nations sat the same as they had the previous night eating the remainder of the stew. Chewing the soft chunks slowly, Francis now realised how bland and tasteless the orange mush was but ate it anyway. Perhaps, while he was here, he could teach his 'captor' a thing or two.

They had not spoken much since their little tiff, Arthur seeming awkward. However, Francis did not feel the same and had a burning question from earlier that he longed to ask.

"Arthur?" he began, keeping his tone conversational but careful.

The man he addressed looked up, mouth full, with expecting eyes. Francis continued.

"Earlier you mentioned your mother…"

Swallowing his mouth's contents, the British nation took another spoonful, turning his focus back to the food. "Yes, and?" he muttered, as though there were nothing odd in what they were talking about.

"What I am trying to say, Arthur, without being rude, is how is that so?" the older boy tried not to fumble his question.

Setting down his bowl, Arthur turned to face the other, his expression one of confusion.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

Francis bit his inner lip, trying to think of a way to put things delicately.

"If you are a nation how is possible that you have a mother?" he waited for his answer.

"I don't know how else I would have gotten here," the younger boy said as though it were obvious. Good lord speaking to this child was impossible.

"You are a nation though," the boy growing frustrated reiterated, still perplexed.

"So was she," Arthur shrugged, avoiding eye contact, "and why do you even want to know, can't we talk about something else?"

"But who-"

"I said can we talk about something else…" Arthur interrupted.

Unlike the other times he had cut in while Francis was speaking, his words carried not bite, only a desperation for the subject to be dropped. Thinking about it, that probably had something to do with the past tense that was being used in relation to the woman. A twang of guilt plucked at the older boy's heart strings when he fully understood what they had been talking about and he conceded to stop talking about it with no further mention. He did, however, glance at the smaller boy, whose virid eyes had grown delicate red veins.

"Very well," he spoke, attempting to be cheery in a distracting way, "what are we going to do to pass the rest of the day?"

It took a moment for the other to break from his suspended state, causing further guilt on Francis' part, before he sniffed and spoke, looking at him, "I need to clean all these pots and pans and get food for tonight and collect more firewood. I suppose you're going to have to help if I can't leave you alone."

The idea of manual labour wasn't one that excited Francis but he did not wish to be a hindrance and so agreed eagerly.

"I would be happy to help but is it safe to go outside again?"

"Those men are gone now," the other said, collecting together the dirty pots and pans to take out.

"How are you sure?" Francis enquired and was shot an exasperated look in return.

"Do you ever stop asking questions?" the younger boy drawled, but answered anyway, "Alwin followed them. She keeps watch over the woods. Lets me know who comes and goes. Like a guard."

Heaving up the weighty looking load of metal and wood under his arm, Arthur proceeded out the door expecting Francis to follow, which he did. Once outside, the Brit passed his companion the stack and pointed in the direction of the spring.

"Tip what's left on the ground and wash them out in the water, I'll be back with some firewood soon. And don't even think of leaving."

"So that's why you wanted me to stay, I am to be your slave," the Frenchman joked.

The other rolled his eyes, a reaction Francis expected, and let out a little breath of a sigh.

"Just do it," he commanded.

If he hadn't been holding a load of dirty dishes, Francis would have taken the joke one step further and saluted but could only reply verbally. "Yes sir," he nodded and watched the other's caped form flutter away into the thick of the wood.

Shifting the load in his arms with a quiet clatter, he made his way over to the glistening pool and knelt on a cluster of rocks. One by one he tipped out the sloppy contents of the utensils on the ground behind him, sloshed them in the clear water and set them to one side to dry. It didn't take long to clean everything he had been given and, left alone, entranced by the glittering surface, he wanted nothing more than to jump in. His skin and hair felt filthy, having not bathed since before he arrived, as were his clothes. Trailing a hand in the barely detectable current, he looked about him for any sign of movement.

"Arthur?" he called out.

With no reply, the lure of the cool freshness was too much to resist. Stripping down to his undergarments, Francis slowly lowered himself in with a shiver. His creamy skin tingled with the contact in chilling pleasure and he began to wade out, hands floating on the surface. Eyes drifting closed in bliss he stopped at the centre. The pool was deeper than it looked, the clear water magnifying the ground to give the illusion of shallowness, and was chest height on the nation. He began to splash himself gently with the frigid liquid, letting it drip down his face and neck, avoiding his eyes. It was a heavenly sensation to feel so clean. So much so that he was caught completely off guard when he was splashed from behind, letting out a not so manly shriek as icy tendrils slapped him in the back. Turning with his mouth agape in paralysis he was met with the English nation, smirking in triumph.

"I thought I told you to wash those pots," he tried to sound authorative but there was unmistakable amusement in his words.

Francis looked at him a moment, closing his mouth and forming a smirk of his own as he lowered both hands beneath the water's skin and doused the small boy in retaliation. Arthur stood, frozen as Francis had been, ashen yellow fringe plastered to his face, covering his eyes. The older, and supposedly more mature, of the pair couldn't hold in a snorted laugh at the other, standing like a drowned woodland creature.

Peeling back the sodden hair from his sight, Arthur glowered across at the other nation, not with irritation or anger as Francis had expected but with mischief. To the other's surprise, he removed his cape and boots, waded in up to his waist and proceeded to drench his rival with tidal waves of water.

"Ah! Mon Dieu! You beast!" Francis screamed, raising his arms shield himself from the attack, beaming all the time.

"Filthy frog, I thought you wanted a wash!" the younger boy shouted, his own smile evident in his voice.

"Non! Please, have mercy!" the squealing Frenchman peered through his fingers to watch the grin on the other's face for the first time. Now that was how children were supposed to look. Happy. A sense joy filled his chest in seeing Arthur feel something other than rage or sullenness.

"Surrender!" the attacker exclaimed in glee.

"In the name of France, never!" the victim hollered back as he returned fire.

Their raucous of laughter could surely be heard for miles as the two fought, both drenched and breathless, until their arms grew too tired to carry on any longer. Crawling from the water, still shaking with chuckles, they lay flopped on the bank like beached fish. Rays of dappled sunlight littered their dripping bodies, warming them in patches.

"We should take the wood inside," it was Arthur who broke the peace, "I saw some dark clouds not far off, the weather could turn."

Rolling his head to the side so their faces were inches from one another, Francis admired the echo of a smile that still rested on the other's pink lips. "Why don't you let me cook," he offered, "in return for your hospitality."

"Alright," Arthur agreed, "but I still have to find something for you to cook first."

Standing, the smaller blond wrung out his hair, now longer with the weight of the water. Together, they carried in their belongings and Arthur began to build up the dwindling fire.

"I could stay and stoke the fire while you find food," Francis suggested, adding, "I won't run away, I promise."

The look he received suggested that Arthur still did not completely trust him, but he conceded anyhow. "Be careful," he warned, taking up his bow and a quiver of arrows as he exited again.

By himself once more, the Frenchman crouched by the fire to feed in the pile of small logs he had been left, prodding it every now and then. He chopped some potatoes he found beside the stove and fetched some water that he left to boil. Without much to do, he sat beside the fire to dry off his golden locks and waited for Arthur to return.

It didn't take long before light footsteps resonated down the rock hallway and the pale nation appeared with a dead and ready skinned hare slung over his shoulder. He slapped the bare animal down on the table for Francis, who grimaced at it.

"I thought you said you wanted to cook," he said, noting the disgusted expression.

"Non, I will," the older boy replied, reluctantly picking up the body.

It was still warm and slimy but Arthur must have washed and gutted it outside, for which he was very grateful. Borrowing his host's small knife, he began to take the meat from the bone and place it in with the already boiling potatoes.

Behind him, Arthur set about sharpening his arrows, grinding at them with some sort of tool. They did not speak for quite some time but the silence was different from the silences before, now more companionable. The day had seemingly passed in a blur, not that Francis minded so much, however, he now realised his limbs begin to ache from the amount of work they had done. Unused to living this way, he was tired beyond anything he had felt before and had to stifle a yawn. They both ate hungrily, and, even though it was far from a delicacy, Francis was proud of what he had managed to do with just two ingredients.

"How's your nose?" a rather sheepish voice asked.

Touching it to feel only a slight bruise, Francis gave a small smile. "It is alright, it does not hurt," he assured the smaller boy who looked a little guilty.

"I'm sorry I hit you. I was angry," he muttered, cheeks growing a shade redder.

He was a hot-headed boy, that was for sure. Paranoid and bitter, too, but not savage as Francis had feared. Something in the way his eyes could not hide his thoughts, his constantly shifting emotions, that proved this. In Francis' experience of him, he was nothing more than a child, left alone and lost. He couldn't help but feel sorry for him.

"I know and I appreciate your apology. All is forgiven."

Deep orange light glowed through the small gap of a window and bathed the room in welcomed heat. Although the sun had not yet set, both boys were exhausted from their days, Francis physically and Arthur mentally.

Falling into their bunks once more, the French nation came to a realisation from the previous night.

"Arthur?" he spoke up, lying on his back and staring at the low ceiling.

"Yes," he heard back.

"Did you and your mother used to live here?"

There was a brief pause in which he worried he had upset the young boy once more.

"Yes," the small voice replied, "we built it together."

As much as he felt bad for the boy, there was something else Francis felt tugging at his chest. Jealousy? He, himself, had never known a real family but at least that meant he never had to lose one too.

"It is lovely," he complimented, meaning it.

"Thank you," was the equally sincere reply, "goodnight."

Outside, the wind picked up and a faint, wet pattering sounded. The smell of disturbed ground wafted through but neither boy noticed, already asleep.

* * *

So much for the next one being faster but all I can do is apologise as my time is limited. Another, somewhat, boring one, I know but I had a bit of writer's block. Thanks for baring with me xx


	5. Chapter 5

It was Francis who woke first the next morning, scratching his matted hair and stretching. The ground was cold on his bare feet, the air containing a damp bite, and he slipped on his boots straight away, before standing. Glancing over at the other bed, he saw the small mound of a curled body beneath the covers, only the fluffy wheat coloured head visible. Rain from the night before soaked through the walls and gave them a rich, earthy smell but they continued to stand strong.

Not wanting to wake his host, Francis silently made his way out into the open. The light stung his eyes, starkly white and harsh but the weather was mild, a mugginess all through the air made everything heavier, somehow, although, it was not uncomfortable as it gave a sense of warmth. Wood pigeons cooed in the lofty branches, swooping back and forth with twigs in their beaks. An ethereal calm rested upon the nation's mind as he sat on the rocks by the pool to simply breathe.

He sat quietly a while until something in the bushes caught his attention, a splash of red amongst the greenery. Moving closer to inspect it, the smell that reached him told him what it was without needing to look. Cupping a delicate blossom in the palm of his hand he inhaled the scent of the rose deeply, letting the petals tickle his nose.

"What are you doing?" the familiar voice asked.

Turning to his friend, rose still in hand, the Frenchman gave a contented sigh.

"Just admiring the beautiful nature of your country," he breathed, "I have never seen a bloom quite like this."

Hopping over the rocks with the ease of a fox, Arthur peered over the older boy's shoulder to see what the fuss was about.

"It's a wild rose, they grow all around here," he informed.

Francis plucked one such flower from the bush, feeling a petal, red like women's rouge, between his fingers.

"With all the beauty of a regular rose but impossible to tame," he mused, holding the flower up to the light to admire the way the early morning dew glistened, "much like someone I know."

He glanced at Arthur who, in turn, blushed as bright as the petals he was being compared to.

"Shut up you cheese wanker," he grumbled, avoiding eye contact.

The other chuckled, brushing the insult off like dust.

"You are too easy to irritate, mon cher, it is very much amusing."

Arthur continued to gripe under his breath, the words frog and stupid being the main focus, as Francis tucked the stalk of the rose into his pocket so that the head stuck out like a broach. While the smaller nation was distracted, he pulled another from the bush, making sure it had no thorns, and placed it in his thick hair.

"There is no need to be so uptight, mon ami," he uttered, looking down at the pale face that gazed up with eyes of glittering emerald.

Shaking his head to knock the flower down again, Arthur scowled at him out of habit.

"Come on, you idiot," he muttered, picking up the rose and going inside.

Francis grinned at the child when his back was turn, endlessly amused by the funny little creature.

They shared a quick breakfast then went back outside, both clad in their capes as it was colder than the day before, taking with them the pots once more, and Francis waited for instruction.

"Same as yesterday," the younger of the two briefed, "I'll be back with wood."

Doing as he was told, Francis couldn't help but feel a sense of boredom set in due to the repetition. It was a hard life that Arthur led, the same chores and tasks each day with little joy to break up the monotony. He must truly hate the government to choose this over the life they could provide him with. Thinking about the neglected people of the nation, the French representative felt a sense of responsibility to talk Arthur around. Whether he liked it or not, the boy had been chosen for this and he had people other than himself to think about. It wasn't fair to call him selfish, any person would want to avoid an existence such as this, but there wasn't always a choice to be made. This was the life he had been handed and he would have to deal with it, like every other nation did.

Like yesterday, Arthur did not leave him alone for long, returning as Francis finished cleaning the last pot. They repeated their actions from yesterday, carrying everything inside, rebuilding the fire and Arthur taking up his bow, ready to hunt.

"Can I come with you?"

Arthur cocked his head like a dog and gave a quizzical look.

"Why would you want to come with me? You don't know how to hunt."

Looking at the bow then back at the confused face of the other, Francis shrugged. "Teach me. It can't be that hard."

The shorter boy raised an eyebrow in amusement.

"I bet you've never even touched a weapon before," he remarked, glancing at the elegant Frenchman's delicate, unmarked hands.

Folding his arms, Francis spoke indignantly, "I will have you know I have been trained by the sword extensively."

"A sword isn't a bow. And we're not fighting, we're hunting," the younger boy began to move out but was followed by the relentless foreign nuisance.

Knowing he would not convince him to stay at home, Arthur rolled his eyes and accepted his fate. It was like having a duckling to care for, only more defenceless and less cute.

They made their way to a clearing, not far away, where the trees were spread further apart and the sun could shine through without shadows. Wordlessly, the practiced nation stepped into the centre, drew an arrow from his quiver, notched it and let it fly. Its trajectory was straight and it sailed with a swish like a bird's wings, then planted itself into the trunk of a tree.

The boy stepped back and held the weapon out to Francis.

"Do that."

"Is that all the instruction I get?" the older boy's eyes flitted from the arrow, to the bow, to the boy who was holding it.

"I don't know what else to tell you, you just do it," Arthur shrugged.

Unsure of himself, Francis took the bow, surprised at its weight, and an arrow along with it, and held it out how Arthur had, his arm straight. He fumbled about with the arrow for a while before he managed to fix it onto the string properly. The uncertain look he gave his teacher was returned with a twitch of his sizable brows in expectation, showing there was no help to be found there. Pulling back the string as far as he could and releasing it again, Francis was confused when he did not see the arrow fly through the air as it had done when Arthur showed him but quickly realise this was because it was on the floor at his feet.

The embarrassment that reddened his neck increased when he heard the sound of snorted laughter. Behind him, the smaller boy was doubled over and howling, hands on his knees and tears in his eyes. Although he did not much enjoy the feeling of being made the fool, the abashed boy was unable to stop a smile from spreading across his own cheeks.

"Go on then, master bowman, you show me how it is done," he held the bow out to its owner who was still calming from his fit.

Wiping his eyes, the other stepped over and did not take his weapon back.

"Here," he said as he positioned the clueless boy's limbs how they were meant to be, notching him an arrow. "Now pull back like this," he instructed, guiding his pupil's arm, "and aim for the same tree as I did."

Francis lined his sight up, composing himself. He took a breath and released.

Although much better, his second attempt was also a failure, the arrow disappearing into the bushes beside the tree he had aimed for.

"It's an improvement," offered the smaller boy with an encouraging nod.

Giving a breathy laugh, Francis let his arms drop. "Perhaps I should leave it to you," he handed the bow back, Arthur taking it this time.

"Probably for the best," he agreed.

After retrieving the used arrows, they were about to move on when Arthur stopped, putting out a hand to signal for Francis to stop also. He picked up a stone from the floor and passed it to his companion.

"What is this for?" he asked.

The other pointed at a thick bunch of shrubs a few feet ahead of them. "You wanted to come with me so you have to help. Throw that in there."

The older boy raised an eyebrow but knew better than to question it and threw the stone at the middle of the bushes. An explosion of birds burst from the greenery, flying in every direction, but Arthur's reflexes were that of a hunter and two were knocked from the sky before they could vanish into the leaves again.

"Quite the skill. The palaces top archers could not shoot like that," Francis commented with a nod.

Arthur turned and gave a joking bow, clearly quite proud of himself, then collected the bodies before moving on. They spent several hours moving further and further into the seemingly endless expanse of trees, stopping when there was game to be had or things to forage, and by the time the sun was lowering in the sky they had a good supply of food and birds that dangled from a string that Arthur hung over his shoulder.

As they sat beside the spring once more, cleaning and gutting the birds, they chatted jovially about this and that. The mood was pleasant as the shadows grew longer and the temperature dropped a few degrees. One by one the birds stopped calling, new sounds piped up; the yowl of a fox, the buzz of a cricket all adding to the song of the night. When it became too dark to work outside the pair moved inside, Francis happy to cook again while Arthur sat atop his bed, the blanket draped over his small frame, legs crossed, and played his flute to his small audience. Occasionally he would stop to scold the tiny woman, that the other could not see, for putting him off with her chattering. At this Francis would snicker to himself over the pot he stirred. The tune that infused the air was lilting and reminded the Frenchman of an old rhyme from his home country.

"À la claire fontaine, m'en allant promener j'ai trouvé l'eau si belle que je m'y suis baigné," he murmured in his mother tongue to match the rise and fall in pitch.

Unseen by him, Arthur's eyes flickered over to him as he sang, and he played more quietly so as to hear.

"That's a nice song," he commended.

"It is something that the children sing at home," Francis replied subconsciously.

"What's France like?" asked the child with an inquisitive tone.

The other looked over his shoulder to see the child lie on his front and expectantly wait for the reply like he was about to be told a story. It was really quite endearing.

"Well," Francis started, his voice taking on a whimsical tone, "I love every part of my fair land. The vin yards that stretch across the hills of the south where the sun is always shining, the mountains dusted with snow and Paris, oh Paris! A city at the midst of everything, one of beauty."

He looked back again at the little face, glowing with curiosity.

"You will come and visit me one day, oui?"

"Maybe I will," Arthur thought aloud.

"You will," Francis gave a look to say it was happening, like the look a parent would send their child.

Again, they ate and retired to bed quite early, sleeping soundly. Now firmly comfortable with one another.

The next few days passed similarly to the previous ones. They rose and went about their chores together, hunting and scavenging. Arthur teaching the older nation how to survive as he did. Showing him how to find dry wood in the ditches and holes, which fruits he could eat and what would kill him in an instant, letting him take peaks into the world that, until now, was hidden from him. The younger boy taught him to hunt and to fish and, in return, Francis showed him how to cook, or at least tried to, how to sew and helped to keep house. Their symbiotic relationship worked well for them.

It was pleasant and, to Francis' realisation, the first real friend he had made. Back at home he spoke to the staff and his tutors and, of course, his royal family but he sometimes suspected that they were only nice to him because they had to be, now even more so since he had something to compare it to. Perhaps that was why he was so relentless in his pursuit of the smaller nation. He may not have known Arthur so well, at least not yet, but he was a good judge of character and the person he had come to know, though stubborn and angry, had a good soul, he was certain of it.

Mid-afternoon on the fourth day of his staying with the younger nation, the two rested together, against a willow tree beside a bend in the river where it ran deep enough for fish to swim. A fishing rod made of a branch and some twine was propped on a rock a few inches away, where they could keep an eye on it, the line trailing lazily in the current. Arthur sat sharpening his arrows while Francis made a chain with the daisies that grew about them.

"How long have you been out here?" he asked curiously, glancing up from the string of flowers.

The other thought a moment then spoke, "I'm not sure. The river was just freezing over when I first arrived."

Francis blinked in surprise, that was at least five months ago. Astounding that he had survived the winter but even more so that he had not been found yet.

"That is a long time to be away, mon ami," he said, concern in his voice and on his face.

Arthur shrugged in response, not caring for the connotations of what Francis had said.

"Do you even know what is happening in government?" the more experienced nation turned to be fully facing the other, his tone lecturing.

Noticing the disapproval in Francis' voice, the younger nation frowned back.

"What does it matter? They wouldn't take orders from me," he stated as a fact.

"Perhaps not now, but that is why you must learn and one day you will be able to command armies," the older boy tried to convince, to no avail.

Becoming irate, Arthur set aside his work and faced his elder.

"They don't take any notice of us no matter how much we know or how old we are. They just want to use us as pawns," he narrowed his eyes while he spoke.

Not wanting this to end in conflict, Francis thought about his argument carefully. He didn't agree with what Arthur was saying, not at all, and he wanted to convince him to go back to his rightful post as a representative but was also wary of how conversations like this had gone in the past.

"I do not think you understand the responsibility you hold, Arthur, it is important you-"

"Don't speak to me like I'm stupid, I know I'm here for my people," Arthur cut in, indignant, "I can feel them, just like you can, but what's the point in letting myself be held prisoner by my rulers when they won't let me do anything."

Francis knew how he was feeling. He, himself, being so young still, was not allowed to have much input in his own governmental matters. It was frustrating, especially when he physically felt every mistake they made, but he knew that he was still learning and that one day he would be the one making the decisions.

"You must be patient and trust them in their judgment," he tried to argue rationally.

Watching the smaller boy's face warp into that familiar scowl, his irritation turned to anger, as Francis had feared it would.

"Why would I trust them?! The people who would let me be tortured!" his outrage grew with each word, "The people who took my mother from me!"

With the more he knew of the boy's past, more made sense. However, it would not stop Arthur from being a nation. He would always have his duty, nothing would change that, and Francis would not back down on his point again.

"There comes a time when we must put things behind us. We cannot change what we were created to be so why not embrace it and make her proud?"

"I will never forgive them for what they did!" the younger nation shouted, standing with his fists clenched.

Rising, on edge after the result of their last altercation, Francis hoped to calm the situation with his tone. "You know I am right, ami, it is the only way you will find peace."

"Shut up!" Arthur screamed, eyes covered in a glistening sheen, "Shut up! Shut up!"

His cheeks grew pinker, his lips pulled back in a growl. When the ever sympathetic Frenchman went to step closer, he backed away, glare fixed firmly on the other's kindly, sky blue gaze.

"Don't come any closer!" the younger boy warned, "You're not my friend, you never were! You only want to send me back there so you can use me! Or have them use me! I don't even know what you want but I know that I'm never going back and I never want to see you again!"

Knowing the child was being irrational out of emotion, Francis tried to be understanding but soon realised the damage was done.

"Arthur, I am your friend. I tell you this out of my concern for you and your country," he ventured in a bid to calm him down but his efforts were fruitless.

Snarling through gritted teeth, Arthur brought out the knife he kept in his boot and brandished it threateningly. "Go! Get out!" his voice broke with betrayal that brought a pang to Francis' chest.

He knew that Arthur wouldn't use the knife, it was there just to scare him away, but it wasn't like he could calm the enraged nation, not at the time being, and so Francis backed down.

With his hands up, the older nation took a small step backwards, "alright, I will go if that is what you want."

The armed boy blinked back the shininess of his eyes as he still held his weapon out, arm shaking slightly in rage and hurt. He did not speak, only squinted up in hatred.

"But I want you to know that you are my friend," he continued, "and I would never want to hurt you. I thought I was helping and for hurting you, I am sorry."

Still receiving heated silence, he let out a sigh that ran through his whole body and turned away, heavy hearted. Behind him, the bushes rustled and when he peered over his shoulder, Arthur had disappeared, like when they first met.

All the through the wood and over the fields, Francis dragged his feet, shoulders slumped with the weight of guilt upon them. The fact that he felt like a failure to the crown came second to his failure in being a friend, the only friend the poor boy had. He had done nothing wrong in his own eyes but had not considered how his words would affect the person he was speaking to and he mentally kicked himself for how selfish he had been.

As the straw rooves of the village grew closer, their fight replayed in Francis' head. In hindsight, he supposed what he said was rather insensitive, Arthur was clearly still not over his mother's death and being told to get over it was probably the last thing he wanted to hear.

The townspeople greeted him with dubious glances, as they had when he first arrived, but he expected nothing less. Brushing them off, the nation made his way back to the inn and went to go upstairs but hesitated when he caught a familiar conversation.

"I reckon he's still out there," one of the men from the search party they had encountered in the woods said to a fellow villager.

To his relief, the barmaid, who would surely have recognised him, was not present to point him out as the person with information, and so Francis flipped up his hood and walked to the stairs, which he climbed halfway. Stopping where a wall divided the bar and the rest of the stairs, he waited to hear them speak further, concerned they may plan another search.

"He's smart, that's for sure, but the little bugger has to be there somewhere," the man continued.

Beside him, another voice that Francis vaguely remembered spoke up, "but we looked and there was hide nor hair of him."

"Then we didn't look hard enough," the first man was determined and the eavesdropping boy's heart sped up at his tone.

He moved down a step to hear more clearly but the men's conversation was interrupted by a female voice and the topic of a search party was dropped. Although they had not explicitly stated they intended to return to the forest, Francis was worried by the stubbornness of the first man he had overheard and assumed at least he would make another attempt at hunting down the unsuspecting Arthur. He had his woodland spies to keep watch, of course, but last time had been a narrow escape and he wished he could warn the fugitive nation in advance.

Up in the little attic room, the light shifted on the wall with the setting sun. Going back and trying to speak with Arthur now wouldn't work, that was for sure, he needed some time to cool down. Tomorrow he would go, using his warning as an excuse, and apologise for what he had said. He didn't know what to expect, Arthur was the type to hold grudges but could also appreciate sincerity and might forgive him if he was right about the villager's return. Ever the optimist, though, Francis would not give up if there was still a chance. Guilt weighing on his mind like a foggy shroud, he found it difficult to sleep that night but, eventually, strayed into a dark, dreamless state of rest.

The next morning, Francis woke still tired. Clouds dimmed the early morning sun, leaving the fields in shadow. Now that he knew the younger nation's routine it would be easy to find him, given that he could find his way, he never did have a very good sense of direction, and that none of Arthur's fairy consorts would warn him of his presence.

He waited a while before dashing through the bar and out of the village, to hike across the fields. It was midday by the time he reached the opening in the trees from which he knew his way. About to enter, he paused and ducked down when a crack of a twig to his left echoed across the empty grass plane. He turned to see the forms of two large men, undoubtedly the ones from before, trudging up the slight incline to the trees. They came from a different angle than he did, meaning they had not seen him approach, and so the French nation, now on alert, quickly scurried through the bushes and ran, like his life depended on it, down the trail he remembered.

By now, if Artur was following his regular routine, he should be by the spring and, therefore, this is where Francis went first, only to find it abandoned. Concern welling, he next checked Arthur's home. No one there either. It was impossible to tell the whereabouts of the men meaning he couldn't run around screaming out the other's name, and so, he would have to search with stealth.

The further he made his way into the forest, the more anxious he grew. Occasionally there would be a thrash of a branch or the echo of an incomprehensible word, keeping the increasingly worried boy on alert. Over an hour of searching and still no sign of the smaller boy. Driven to the point of being frantic, Francis began to call out in a hushed tone.

"Arthur?" his accent rang out quietly, "Arthur?"

Still nothing. Something was wrong, he could sense it. Although he was good at blending in with his surroundings, there was no way he would ignore Francis drawing attention to him like that, not when there were intruders about.

Trying this a few more times and receiving no reply, Francis thought that perhaps he had made his way back home and turned back on himself to go and check, an uneasy feeling resting in his stomach. However, as he took the first few steps in the opposite direction, a near inaudible sound came from a few metres away.

Body freezing like a startled creature, Francis listened intently for another hint of something. Nothing for a moment then a voice, weak and high.

"Francis…please, help…"

* * *

Maybe two or three chapters more, the end is in sight thank God. Not that I don't enjoy writing this but reading everything eight times is driving me insane. Hope you all don't feel the same way.

Translation for the French nursery rhyme

At the clear spring, as I was strolling by, I found the water so nice that I went in to bathe.


	6. Chapter 6

"Arthur?" Francis called out, not caring if he was heard, he just wanted to find him.

"Francis…" came the reply, timid but loud enough to track.

Moving in the direction of the voice, Francis' eyes darted frantically for any sign of the wispy figure amongst the leaves. "I am here, Arthur, where are you?"

"I'm here. Hurry, please…"

He picked up his pace at the strain in the disembodied voice, weaving his way through the branches with an ease acquired through panic. Twigs snapped at his cheeks, his throat grew dry with his panting breath, but still he ran to the faint calling.

"Francis…"

It came from right on top of him but he couldn't see the boy he looked for.

"Arthur?"

Head turning in every direction, the older nation's confusion steeped until an odd shape amongst the branches caught his attention.

"Arthur!"

There, strung up like a dead pheasant, Arthur hung from one leg, struggling weakly. The scene would have been comical if not for the river of thick, dark blood that dripped into a growing puddle on the leaves.

The other's head snapped round at hearing the voice directly behind him and the pitiful look in his frightened eyes was heart breaking.

"Get me down, please! They can't find me like this!" he began to flail aggressively, causing himself more harm.

"Mon cher, stop struggling, please," Francis tried to calm him as he reached the hanging body but was unable to decipher the trap he was caught in, "tell me what to do."

Arthur eased his thrashing and pointed to where the rope was tied at the base of the trunk. "It's a snare," he informed through gritted teeth, "cut it there and I'll fall."

"But I-" the older nation began to object, not wanting Arthur to get hurt further from the landing.

"Just do it!" the other demanded, "I dropped my knife, it's right there."

Picking up the small knife that lay on the floor beside the red liquid where Arthur must have dropped it while attempting to escape by himself, Francis swiftly began to saw the rope apart until the final strands untwined and snapped, letting their capture hit the ground with a thud and a grunt.

"Je suis désolé," he hurried, rushing back to his friend's side, "we must go, Arthur, there are people here!"

"I know," Arthur hissed through the pain, "Alwin is distracting them for the moment."

The rope, like a noose, still gripped his blood covered ankle and, to Francis' horror, he realised that between the strands of matter were laced barbs of jagged metal. There was no time to remove it out in the open, where they were sure to be spotted if the hunters came along, and, therefore, it would have to wait until they were home.

Francis stood and offered a hand. "Can you walk?" he asked as the smaller boy went to pull himself up only to give a sharp gasp of pain. Without asking, the he scooped the child up into his arms with ease, his scrawny body limp from blood loss.

His feet showing him the way, Francis found his way back to the hideout of a house with no trouble, sprinting the whole way. Once inside, he lay the wilting figure down on his bed, concerned at the ashen tone that spread across his face.

"Do not worry, mon Cherie, it will all be alright," he comforted, for his own benefit as much as Arthur's.

"I know," the voice of the younger nation was strangled with agony and fainter than before, causing a sinking feeling in Francis' chest.

A pot of water sat on the stove and the older of the two scooped a bowl full before bringing it over to beside the bed.

"Drink," he instructed, handing the bowl to the other, who complied with shaking hands.

Sitting at the other end of the of the bunk, the Frenchman bit his lip while studying the wound. The barbaric trap had cut deep and continued to dig deeper as Arthur had tried to squirm his way free, the skin having been ripped away. He had to hold back a gag at seeing a white flash of bone that was exposed.

"This is going to hurt," he warned apologetically as he placed the knife, ready to make the decisive cut. With a nod, Arthur readied himself, screwing his eyes shut.

Carving through one slice at a time, Francis made every effort to not cause his patient further harm until the torturous binding was severed completely.

"Just get it off," the smaller nation beseeched, now sweating profusely.

Being as gentle as he could be, Francis peeled the blood soaked lasso from the delicate flesh that surrounded it, the distressed whimpers that emitted the writhing body as each barb was wrenched from his skin causing wave upon wave of guilt in him. Crimson treacle oozed from the ring of lacerated tissue, slowly but heavily. Ripping several strips of fabric from his tunic, Francis wadded them together and pressed them into the wound to stop the bleeding, only for them to be saturated in seconds. A faint tinge of panic began to set in but he supressed it, he could not become the one that needed help in this situation. He wrung out the fabric onto the floor, the fluid pouring between his fingers, making them sticky, then went back to quelling its flow. This time it ceased after a few moments.

Sighing in relief, Francis looked up to the face of the other, concerned to see it starkly pale. "How are you feeling?" he asked, tearing more strips and dampening them to clean some of the mess.

Arthur hissed at the sting and grimaced, "I've had worse," he tried to brave it but Francis knew it was a front.

"You are very pale, ami, how long were you stuck there?" he continued to question, worried about the blood loss Arthur had suffered.

"A while," the pale boy muttered, his lips seeming ruby red in comparison to his skin, "I thought I was going to pass out."

"Good thing you did not or those people would have found you before I did," the Frenchman finished dabbing softly around the holes in the other's leg.

"Those bastards," Arthur attempted to be enraged but found himself too faint, lying still while the anger inside him flared.

Francis couldn't help but feel something akin to betrayal boil in the back of his throat, like rising bile. The trap had obviously been made specifically for use on humans, or nations as it were, and he was shocked by the cruelty displayed by those people. They may not be in danger of dying, but that, by no means, gave humans the right to hunt them like game. His lack of exposure to the darker side of people caused an odd sense of unease in the French representative. What if his own people were to turn on him? What if Arthur was right not to trust them?

However, he wouldn't admit this to Arthur. He knew a whole race could not be judged on the actions of a few.

"How did this happen? You know these woods better than any hunter does," he spoke with a sympathetic hum.

A light sigh came from the dried-out lips of the younger nation. "I panicked and ran…I don't know, I wasn't looking."

Neither spoke for a moment as Francis imagined how afraid the poor child must have been.

"I'm sorry I told you to go," Arthur's weak voice apologised, "it's not like I hate you or anything you just…made me angry. I get angry a lot and I don't know why…"

Shining green eyes looked away in shame, or perhaps embarrassment, at the confession. It was the first time Francis had heard him confess he was wrong and it meant a lot. He surely would have playfully teased him over the way he had acted before if not for the state he was in.

"All is forgiven," the older boy smiled warmly as he tied a cleanish strip of cloth around the tattered ankle.

The cabin had darkened considerably since the two had returned, the full moon well on its assent skyward. Those who sought them must have left by now and with that thought came the feeling of safety. Arthur's eyelids, barley open, fluttered like the flames in the fireplace, his breath evened out, although not asleep he was blissfully beyond the point of feeling.

"Mon pauvre petit lapin," the older nation sympathised at the pitiful sight.

Gazing upon the pale face, Francis moved up to where it lay, softly coaxing the sandy head into his lap. He pulled the blanket up over the thin shoulders and noticed how Arthur instinctively curled into a tight ball, like he was afraid of being a target. Subconsciously, he began to fiddle with the thick strands of downy hair, letting them fall between his fingers in a comforting manner, as he murmured the same song as before.

"Chante rossignol, chante, toi qui as le cœur gai tu as le cœur à rire, moi je l'ai à pleurer," he lulled like a prayer as he kept watch over the now sleeping child.

Above their heads, the forest fell silent. Not even the wind stirred them. Occasionally Arthur would mumble in his sleep, something incoherent but meaningful to him, and Francis wondered what he dreamed about, stroking his fluffy locks and muttering soothingly.

Francis awoke not having realised he had fallen asleep. He still sat upright, back propped against the cold, dirt wall with the fair head of the other rested peacefully in his lap. He rolled his shoulder and stretched out his arms, rather stiff after sleeping like that. Glancing down at the tranquil face, Francis was relieved to see that much of the colour had returned, his skin no longer deathly gaunt. Carefully brushing his fringe aside, his hand as light as a feather, the older boy studied the delicate features of the other in detail for the first time, noticing how his left eyebrow was thicker than the other. The thought made him chuckle inwardly.

Dwindling firelight lapped at the floor unevenly and Francis noticed there was a chill in the air. The fire had not been built up before they fell asleep and so the temperature had dropped quite considerably. Knowing he could not restart it if it went out, Francis slowly shifted the tiny bundle off his thighs, mindful not to wake him, and pulled the blanket up to his neck so as to keep him warm while the flames regained their heat.

He dropped from the bed and threw some logs into the fire, poking at them a while to make sure the dry wood was set ablaze. Once they crackled nicely in the fireplace, Francis took it upon himself to make sure the daily chores, now engrained in his memory, were seen to, starting with fresh water. The pot still sat beside the bed where he had left it, thick red syrup now infused throughout it. Heaving it up against his hip, Francis lugged it up the stairs, making sure that none sloshed onto the floor as he went.

Outside he found a place near the trees to dump out the contents, watching how the midmorning light glistened off it in a pinkish hue. He shook out the last few drops then took it to the spring where he proceeded to wash it out thoroughly, the clear water becoming stained and washed away in the placid current.

The weather had gone back to how it had been when the French nation first arrived. A bitter wind whipped through the trees from the coast and the sky was bright white with clouds that could promise rain. Although not dark, the woods were muted, the vibrant colours of the trees and bushes veiled with a thin, stony mist, everything appearing a shade greyer. Quite a depressing scene. That is until a flicker of crimson caught Francis' eye as it had the day before, however, not as morbidly. Nestled between the trees was the rose bush, it's blooms as dynamic as the first time he saw them. Although ragged around the edges, the soft, oval petals were far more exquisite than any rose that grew within the palace walls, their untamed beauty all the more stunning with the knowledge they were untouched by human design.

"What are you staring at?"

Francis turned his head to glance backwards, surprised to see Arthur awake, stood rubbing his eyes in the morning fog.

He smiled back at the boy with an eyebrow raised. "Do you not ever announce yourself?" he asked rhetorically, "It is bad manners not to."

The other emitted a snort as he limped closer, "why should I care?"

A concerned frown adorned the older boy's face at seeing how he dragged his wounded leg slightly, not putting weight on it properly. Despite nations healing faster than humans it still took time, especially for something as nasty as that.

"You should not be out here, Angleterre," Francis cautioned.

Arthur shrugged, continuing to hobble over to the water's edge where he crouched and splashed his face, scrubbing away some dried blood from his neck.

Rolling his eyes at the child's stubbornness, the older nation came to his side. "At least let me look at it."

"I'm fine," Arthur shook him off again.

Francis folded his arms, his tone warning, "Arthur."

A pair of fir green eyes flit up to meet azure ones then looked away to avoid their stare. After a few quiet seconds of louring, Arthur huffed and turned around, his leg outstretched. "Fine," he conceded with a pouting look.

Internally smirking at the fact he had some form of control over the other, the Frenchman sat and pulled the thin leg into his lap, unwrapping the dressing, now stiffened and brown. It was good to see that the chunks of missing flesh had mostly grown back over night, leaving a raw looking ring around the ankle with substantial bruising up to about his mid shin. It looked painful still, however, a vast improvement on what it had looked like the previous day.

"Much better," Francis remarked, glad it had healed so well.

"Told you I was fine," the English nation muttered as he swivelled away from the other and lowered his leg into the water. Flakes of dried blood like rust peeled off upon touching the liquid and Arthur gently scrubbed at the rest with his fingernails.

Sitting beside him, Francis continued to watch the rose bush, as he had been before. Swirls of dewy mist rolled upward, framing the flowers in a way. Drops of morning condensation still rested on their leaves, glinting like newly washed window panes.

From his side, there was the sound of a throat being cleared and he looked over to see Arthur a little red in the face as he prepared to speak. "Thank you for helping me," he said hurriedly, "I didn't think you were coming back after what I said and I'm glad you did."

Francis had to chuckle at the awkwardness that he always expressed at the slightest hint of emotionality. "I would never leave someone who needed me. Especially someone I cared about."

A smile twitched the corners of the others lips at the last part of the sentence, obviously happy at the new-found friendship, not that he would show that of course. However, the hint of happiness faded as a cloud came over his features.

Noticing the change in expression, Francis frowned. "What is the matter?" he enquired.

"Why would you come here to meet me?" Arthur questioned in return, "Why would you try to become my friend?"

Confused at his confusion, the foreign nation tilted his head and frowned deeper. "I do not understand what you mean, cherie."

Sighing heavily, Arthur looked up to meet his muddled eyes.

"They're only going to make us fight," his tone was bleak, his look despairing, "that's what they do with us."

It was true, obviously, and hopelessly nihilistic. Francis knew full well that one day he would be forced to fight, hurt, even murder his closest friends. It kept him up at night.

Mimicking Arthur's sigh, he looked out across the spring as he thought over the issue for the thousandth time in his life. "They will," he admitted, feeling the other's eyes on him, waiting for his response, "but does that matter?"

Frowning, the Englishman watched him closely, now the one bemused. Before he could ask just what the frog was talking about, he got his explanation.

"We will outlive them all, Arthur." Francis spoke with a tone of authority, one that came from a deeply engrained sense of leadership. "When they are dead and gone we will still be here. Their wars are petty. They make us fight, yes, but who said that means we must hate one another?" he shrugged, looking back with eyes that seemed so much older than they were. "They cannot control our minds."

Arthur had known nations older than him before but had not admired any of them other than his mother, his brothers never having been great role models. In a way, he looked up to Francis more than her. He loved her and respected her but she had been a rebel through and through and it was the death of her, whereas Francis seemed so willing to work for his people yet hadn't turned into some mindless puppet controlled by those above him. That took an integrity that Arthur aspired to have.

"Hello?" Francis' sing-song voice made Arthur realise he had been staring.

He blinked back into the real world, a blush flowering across his cheeks for the second time that day. "I suppose you're right," he mumbled, "doesn't sound like much fun though."

"It all depends on what you make of it," the more experienced of the two remarked, "we shall have to wait and see."

The easy smile that spread across his thin lips was one of blissful ignorance yet was still quite comforting. In the face of all they would have to go through the Frenchman still seemed, somehow, cheery. Optimistic even. In that moment, the looming threat of immortality didn't seem like such a terrible fate if he could only share it with a friend. At that, a thought came to Arthur's head.

"When are you leaving?" he had almost completely forgotten that they would be parting ways soon and was hesitant to hear the answer.

"Still eager to have me out of your way?" Francis jested, "Not to worry, I leave tomorrow afternoon."

A sinking feeling made itself known in Arthur's chest, like the anchor of a ship that weighed him down. Another day and he would be alone again. The thought filled him with a feeling of dread, he had never known loneliness until he had a time he wasn't lonely to compare it to and did not revel in the idea of going back to how he was.

"Oh," he breathed through barely parted lips.

Francis studied his face, one of clear disappointment, with a raised eyebrow. "You look forward to having your home back to yourself, non? You will not have to look after someone as useless as myself," he attempted to console the younger boy.

"Of course," Arthur lied, embarrassed he was becoming so worked up over the thought of someone he barely knew leaving him.

"And you have your friends," the foreign country carried on in the same tone.

Bringing his bony knees up to his chest and hugging them, Arthur faced away to hide his pouting lips. "It's not the same," he mumbled.

A little shocked by the display before him, Francis couldn't help but feel the same way. They may not have been together more than a week but there was an understanding they shared, they were the same in many ways.

"I know," he stretched out a hand and began to pet his light blond hair, "but we will see each other again. Often, most likely."

The skeletal shoulders of the smaller nation heaved a sigh as he pulled himself together, burying those emotions he had let slip, covering them with his sharp wit. "Maybe not too often," he quipped with a cheekiness in his tone.

Shaking his head, the other gave his head a playful push, muttering, "I knew you would not miss me."

Arthur allowed him the last word, watching the surface of the crystal pool be disrupted by falling rain that came down in thick drops through the open canopy. Watery ballerinas leapt from the surface with each hit, gracefully rising and falling, a few at first but then more joined the stage. They watched the show for some time until Arthur felt a shiver run up his spine.

"Go inside, I will see to what needs to be done," Francis instructed.

Not arguing, as his leg did still hurt quite a bit and it would slow them down, the smaller of the two nodded, pushing himself up and limping back into the house he had grown used to sharing. Now alone, the French boy contemplated what his return home would be like, realising the thought of his own comfortable room, of his luxurious life had not crossed his mind in days now. He wasn't sure what he would say to the King about the odd little island nation he had become friends with but he would certainly be congratulated on his successful mission for which he was proud of himself. Perhaps this trip hadn't been too much for him.

It took Francis some time to complete the chores alone, the sky showing its dusky hue by the time he re-joined his companion, who attended to work of his own. Dinner was ready for them and, to the culinary enthusiast's dismay, everything he had taught Arthur over their time seemed to have gone to waste as, by some cruel joke, he had managed to completely butcher the simple recipe he had attempted. However, not wanting to discourage the child, Francis did not let on, making accentuated compliments that the other beamed with pride at.

The rest of the night was spent in conversation, Francis teaching Arthur parlour games he had learned at the palace, like two truths and a lie, something that his sceptical nature was rather adept to. They traded stories of what their lives had been like, the pampered nation feeling rather guilty after hearing much of his less fortunate friend's up-bringing compared to his own.

"Tell me about your mother," he stated during a pause when he realised Arthur had been avoiding the subject in the stories he told. He knew it was a touchy thing to ask about but surely they were at a place now where they could talk about it. He only asked for wanting to help.

For a while, Arthur stayed quiet, seemingly considering what he wished to say, if anything at all, then looked up to make eye contact with the amethyst eyes across from him.

"She was the best person I ever knew," he said quite simply. "She was brave and loving and she protected me from everything. She never let my brothers hurt me," his voice grew quieter, breaking a little at the end of his sentences, "she gave her life for me."

Although he didn't want to upset the child, there was a burning question Francis had had since he found out about the former nation.

"I did not know that we could…die," he hesitated, thinking over the idea that he, himself, may one day be gone and what would happen to France in his absence.

Fiddling absentmindedly with the hem of his worn tunic, the younger nation stared off into the distance, almost as though he could see the woman he was speaking about.

"People came for us," he rambled in a daze, "foreigners from a strange land I had never heard of. They came with their empire. She fought but they took everything from us." The absent glint in his eyes spoke volumes and it tugged at the heart strings to see. "She allowed herself to be captured and tortured so that they wouldn't do the same to me and by the time they left she was too weak. The king said she would never be strong enough again so they let her die…and I had to take her place."

"She does sound strong," Francis showed his respects with the first compliment that came to mind.

A sombre weight fell over the two of them, Francis remaining quiet as the information sunk in. He could vaguely recall old tales of a fierce warrior woman from across the narrow channel who fought the invading Romans for her land but he had no idea they were true.

"Do you have a mother?" Arthur piped up, breaking Francis' train of thought.

"No, no I have no blood relatives," he replied, glancing at the smaller boy who frowned.

"Then how are you here?"

"Je ne sais pas," the nation shrugged, "I was raised along with my royal family. My home is the court."

"Sounds lonely," Arthur considered.

In a way, he was right. Francis would never know a real family but it didn't bother him so much. He would rather have friends.

"I get by fine," he smiled back.

They stayed late, talking into the night about whatever came to mind until both grew tired and decided it was time for the day to end. Crawling into their bunks, the room was homlier than it had been in a long time. The tapping of water on ground had stopped some time ago and now the wind made the trees sing in place of the birds. Francis' eyes were just beginning to drift closed when a small voice from across the room sounded.

"Thanks for visiting me."

In the darkness he grinned to himself, "you are welcome, lapin."

"Wake up!"

A jolting in his arm woke Francis with a start to the early morning. Opening his fuzzy eyelids, the small, freckled face came into focus, pale in the light and close to his own.

"Eh?" he groggily wiped his face and squinted.

Arthur persisted in his shaking the other until he was fully awake. "I have something to show you," he elaborated.

By now, Francis was used to the child's somewhat erratic behaviour and did not question further why he was so rudely ripped from his valuable sleep.

"Oui, I am awake," he groaned, sitting up.

A pair of boots were tossed into his lap as the younger boy stood waiting, already clothed. "Come on," he ushered, "before you have to go."

Sluggishly, the larger nation pulled on his boots and slid from the bed. Once dressed, Arthur wasted no time.

"Follow me," he ordered and left down the hallway.

With a deep yawn, Francis followed after him, limbs heavy like he was wading through a creek and his mind still half in the dreaming world. He clambered up the stone stairs, Arthur pulling at his arm with an innocent excitement, and out into the open woods. Cold air whistled through the branches around them, the leaves and bushes still wet with dew.

"This way," the lighter blond called from a few feet ahead with no further clue of where they headed and Francis obliged without complaint.

They turned left, unlike their usual path, when they came upon the pool, skirting around the edge across the rocks, hopping like frogs. Past the rose bush and the trees that surrounded it, the older nation found himself in unfamiliar territory. The landscape here was rocky, with patches of packed down earth. Despite it being new to him, Arthur remained as surefooted as ever, leading the way, without hesitation, over jagged stones and prickly thickets.

"Your leg is healed then, I take it," he commented at seeing how the younger boy scrambled through the undergrowth in perfect health.

"Good as new," he smiled back over his shoulder, "now hurry up, we don't have long."

Francis panted an amused sigh, trying his best not to fall behind.

After some time of walking, a distinctive sound came into earshot. It took the larger boy a moment to recognise the rolling of waves and, along with it, the briny scent of the sea. As he was about to ask his guide where he had taken them, Arthur stopped and looked back.

"Through here," he instructed, "and watch your step."

With this, the small figure slid through an opening in the wall of trees that obscured their sight to the left. Curious, Francis gladly trailed after him and stepped out and was nearly blown off his feet.

Before him were a few steps of hard, grassy ground then, almost like a trap, a sheer drop down to the rumbling waters far below. Stepping out further, the Frenchman breathed in as deeply as his lungs could take, the air fresh and cooling. Careful not to topple over the edge of the cliff, he closed his eyes, hair blown out behind him, clothes flapping against his skin, the sounds of the land all around. It was like flying.

"I watched your ship come in from here," Arthur said, stood beside him.

He pointed out over the channel that separated their countries, the direction that Francis' ship had come over at. Looking where he pointed, the older boy could faintly make out the shores of his own land.

Arthur took a seat where he stood, crossing his legs, and continued to stare out over the blue mass with it's cresting, white heaps. "I like to look out for ships," he mused, "I like watching them."

"It is a beautiful view," Francis sat next to him, looking out in the same way.

Although the sun had risen it had yet to reach its highest point and the way the yellow light reflected off the rippling mirror far beneath them looked like the shimmering scales off a fish. Above them, the clouds flew by at a startling pace, as though they were eager to be away from the bracing pacific breeze. Francis sat, taking in his surroundings for the last time, memorising every bit of them.

"Have you sailed before?" he asked, when he opened his eyes to see the wistful expression of the other's face.

Arthur shook his head, watching the narrow strip of sea like he longed to be out on it. "One day I will," he said with certainty in his voice. "I'll sail the world, have an empire of my own," he looked down into his lap, speaking to himself more, now, than Francis, "I'll be powerful."

There was a vendetta in his words and it wasn't hard to guess why. With the driving force that Arthur had there was no doubt he would succeed in his aims.

"You know what you have to do then," the older nation's eyes bored into him with a look that said it all.

Letting out a held in breath, Arthur met his gaze a second then focused back on the horizon. "I know," he admitted reluctantly, "I'll go back to the court."

Resigned though his tone was, deep in his heart, he knew it had always been the inevitable outcome, there was never a way to avoid it.

A proud smile spread itself across Francis' lips. "Very good," he encouraged, some of that pride seeping into his voice. The fact that he had helped his friend come to this decision was worth every tongue lashing he had received in return for it.

Lapsing into relaxed silence, the pair enjoyed the remainder of their time together quietly and both couldn't help but reflect on how the other had impacted them, for better or for worse.

The sun had reached its zenith above their heads and it was Arthur who first noticed the vessel sailing, at some speed, in their direction from the adjacent coast. Setting down the instrument that rested on his lower lip, he alerted the nation that the ship came to collect.

"We should go," he suggested, "it's quite a way back."

Squinting up against the brightness, Francis saw what the other was talking about and shrugged. "They cannot leave without me," he pointed out, "there is no hurry."

"I'm not letting you stay if they do," the younger nation warningly joked with a look to match his tone.

With an exaggerated sigh, Francis rolled his eyes over to meet the other's virid gaze. "Alright," he groaned.

Placing the last few touches on the daisy crown he had made, he dropped it onto the straw-coloured head before standing and dusting himself off.

"Very pretty," he cooed over the nation who tried to shoot an indignant look back, only making him cuter.

Arthur stood, removing his crown, and ruffling his hair. "Twat," he grumbled under his breath, making his way back into the thick of the woodland, "come on."

Laughing, Francis scampered after him. "Coming, princess," he called out in mischievous glee. He would miss the funny, grumpy, peculiarly eyebrowed little island country.

It took them a while with their bickering and joking, but the pair made it to the outskirts of the forest, the same place Francis had first entered just over a week ago. A week he wouldn't soon forget. For an awkward minute, they stood face to face, waiting for the other to say goodbye first, reluctant for it to happen.

"Well," it was Arthur that ended the stillness, "it's been an…interesting week."

Smiling up with bright, round eyes, as deeply green as the woods behind him, and twice the trouble, there was a glint of happiness behind their surface that Francis felt partly responsible for.

"Oui, it was," Francis replied, warmth in his voice, "and we shall have another like it soon?"

"Soon," the English nation agreed, holding out a hand to shake the contract on.

Grasping the rough little hand, the taller boy shook it once, firmly. "Do not make me come and chase you again," he joked. Both laughed and fell silent as the trees rustled, the woods themselves waving goodbye to their foreign visitor.

It had come to the moment of parting but as Arthur was about to turn and leave Francis crouched down to one knee, holding his face between his hands, and planted a soft kiss atop the child's forehead. He pulled away again to amusedly observe the surprised expression on the other's reddening face.

"Take care, mon lapin," he instructed, stroking his thumb lightly down the soft cheek.

"You too," Arthur returned.

Their parting words said, Francis stood, giving one last look at the boy he had come to call a friend and ally, and turned to walk away. Only a couple of steps down the path he peered back over his shoulder to find the small form of the other had disappeared back into the landscape like the ghost he had first encountered. Chuckling to himself, he made his way back to the village.

Not wasting any time, the Frenchman made his way to the Inn he had spent only two nights at and collected his belongings. If there was one thing he would not miss about his experience in the British Isles it was the bedding. Everything packed, he made his way back down to the bar where the same, surly woman stood, glaring at her troublesome, French customer.

"Merci, Madame," he strode over, placing the remainder of the money he had brought on the table, "as compensation for my antics." She opened the wallet, her eyes widening at the amount it contained, and closed it with a nod of thanks.

Making his way out of the establishment, a gruff, accented voice caught Francis' ear and he looked over to see three men he recognised well. Rage taking over for a brief, flurried second, the nation marched over to where they sat, slamming both hands on the table to gain their attention.

"Animaux!" he shouted, glaring at each man in turn.

Their shocked, confused faces were all he needed as his anger dissipated and turned his back on the despicable hunters and left.

The journey back to the harbour was shorter than Francis remembered as he made his way down the thin path the same as he had come up it. Green, grassy fields spread to the left and right of him and no longer felt so alien, their quiet swishing a pleasant sound. Before long, the wind grew stronger and the stench of fish permeated the air, letting Francis know the docks were just around the corner. French voices called his name as he stepped onto the boarded walkway, not that he needed direction to the largest ship in port.

Boarding the vessel without pause, the Frenchman made his way to the stern as they cast off, moving from the harbour easily on the gale that blew around them. As he watched the country he had come to know better recede in their wake, Francis leaned against the railing, frowning when he felt something prick him in the chest. Reaching into his top pocket, he felt something soft and pulled out the rose he had picked some days prior, the edges withered but still with life in it. He smiled gently as he felt the petals between his finger-tips, sure to avoid the prickles.

He held the delicate flower tight, afraid to lose it to the waves below, as he looked up to, again, watch the coast line grow thinner with distance. The ship shifted its course, tilting as it turned and for just a second, and Francis caught sight of the white cliff face with a line of forest visible at the top. In front of that forest, barely there at all, stood a tiny figure, with flowing cape and bow in hand. Grinning to himself, Francis raised his hand, rose clutched to his chest, waving above is head. He had not expected to be seen until the figure raised his own arm and waved back.

Francis remained at the back of the boat, staring at those chalky cliff sides long after the allusive woodland spirit was too small to see anymore, beaming ear to ear. Even when his beloved home land came into view he stayed watching the strange island, hoping he would be able to see it again soon.

* * *

Still an epilogue to go but that's the story done I guess. It was pretty hard to manage this but I feel like it was worth it and I think I've improved since the beginning so not a complete waste of time. Hope you enjoyed it.

Translations

Chante rossignol, chante, toi qui as le cœur gai tu as le cœur à rire, moi je l'ai à pleurer - Sing, nightingale, sing, your heart is so happy. Your heart feels like laughing, mine feels like weeping.

Mon pauvre petit lapin - My poor little rabbit


	7. Epilogue

A Parisian sunset glowed orange between silhouetted buildings in the late summer evening as the foreign nation sat outside in its hazy warmth. Strange to think it was the same one he saw in his own country when it felt so much warmer here. The city was alive, even at this time, with its teeming streets, roads thick with the flow of cars. A sigh escaped his lips as he closed his tired eyes, the full heat of the dwindling light upon his face a heavenly feeling until it was blocked by a shadow.

"A lovely evening, is it not?" the smooth French accent broke the Englishman's musing state.

Opening his eyes, squinting against the permeating light, Arthur glanced to where the other stood, placing down a glass of amber liquid on the table he sat at. He said nothing, wishing to keep the peace of the evening, however, this was not to be allowed as Francis sat at the other side of the table, wine in hand.

"Arthur," he began, the questioning intonation causing the man in he addressed to look over with an eyebrow raised, "do you remember when we first met?"

The question caught Arthur off guard. "Vaguely," he answered, taking a sip from his glass, "why do you ask?"

Swilling the liquid in his own glass, the older of the two, now fairly ancient, nations spoke in a conversational tone. "I had a dream about it the other night."

This caught Arthur's interest and he prompted the other to elaborate. "Oh? And what happened?"

"I dreamed of a wild boy in the woods. I tried to follow him but I could never keep up," he finished, punctuating the sentence with a deep drink from his glass.

Breathing a laugh, the younger man looked out to the sun rays reflecting off the building opposite them. "That sounds about right," he muttered.

Unseen by him, Arthur was being studied from across the table, like a rare creature of great intrigue. Francis couldn't help but compare the man he saw now with the child he had met that day. The same I many respects but everything changes, perhaps not in ways that were visible but enough to survive all these years. Eyes a shade more experienced, face weathered but not worn, creased from years of emotions.

He took another sip from his glass, letting the rim rest on his soft lips a moment as he thought. "I am just feeling nostalgic, I suppose," he sighed, lowering his drink with a clink against the metal surface, "I miss those days."

Arthur snorted derisively, "you mean when I got burned at the stake twice a week and everyone was diseased?"

"Oh, mon cher, why must you always be the pessimist?" Francis frowned at his companion, the rose-coloured glasses he seemed to permanently wear shattered by the other's realist point of view.

"I'm not a pessimist, that's how it was," he was right, of course, but Francis would never choose to see it the same way he did, "you always romanticise things."

"Or perhaps I bring out the romantic side that others cannot see," his suave smile made Arthur's lip curl in contempt.

Cool jazz floated from the open door of the bar they sat in front of, something modern that neither of the men recognised. The incessant chatter of the city buzzed and, truth be told, Arthur did occasionally long for the quiet that seemed to have been left in the past. His head hurt at the mere thought of attending that bloody meeting in the morning, his scorn for authority never having lessened, and his eyes drifted closed again as he tried to find some peace in the increasingly busy world they lived in.

"Tired?" the French nation asked sarcastically. He joked but at the root of his words was genuine concern for the health of his younger counterpart. After all, he had sworn to be there for him all those years ago and, even then, it was not a promise he had made lightly.

Peeling open his heavy lids, dark with stress, Arthur turned his eyes without moving his head to lazily look at Francis. "Do you ever feel old?" he asked, the weight of a life in his voice.

Sympathetically, the older man gave a tight smile back. "Sometimes," he admitted, "but an old man would not still be standing."

Exhaling heavily, the island nation drummed his fingers on the table in time with the faint music. They were old.

"Maybe I do miss when times were simpler," he confessed, reminiscing in his mind's eye of open fields and sea swept hillsides.

Francis noticed his friend's sombre mood, knowing the feeling well himself. Two thousand years of watching everything you know die and rot would do that to a person.

"I do not know about that, it is nice to be able to leave your house not fearing death by plague," he remarked darkly, knowing Arthur's sense of humour too well.

As predicted, the English nation's spirits lightened as he laughed in a subdued way that meant it was genuine. "Cheers to that," he smiled, raising his glass.

Gladly returning the gesture, Francis clinked the crystal ware together and downed its contents along with his drinking partner.

The evening had begun to turn to night but the streets remained packed with people, their shadows stretched along the pavement like creeping ghosts. Shop windows began to pull their blinds as others opened theirs and street lights illuminated the dark.

"You are staying with me, oui?" the hosting nation asked even though it had been their custom to stay with one another for a long time now.

"Saves a hotel," Arthur replied as he gathered his belongings and stood, ready for the day to be done.

Francis stood also, clicking his back audibly at which the younger man mentally laughed but didn't mention, knowing he was the same.

"Très bon," he confirmed, "in that case you can help my poor rose."

Raising an unimpressed eyebrow, Arthur spoke with exasperation. "Again? How is that thing still alive?"

"Because I have such a wonderful friend called Arthur who will help me," the older man schmoozed with his biggest puppy dog eyes.

"Fine," Arthur rolled his eyes as he set off at a brisk pace, "but you're not getting any more clippings from my garden if this one dies too, plant murderer."

"Merci, mon petit lapin," the taller man crooned, catching up to his friend.

"Did you take it out of the pot like I told you to?" the Brit asked, well aware that his instructions had been ignored.

Avoiding the interrogating stare he received, Francis began to make excuses, "well I was going to but I like being able to look after it when it is small and cute."

"Then get a puppy," Arthur shot back, "roses need space to grow, they're not meant to stay small."

"I know…" Francis answered, realising the full meaning of what they had said as he looked at the English rose beside him.

Catching the other staring at him with a strange smile, the shorter man frowned. "What?" he asked, becoming self-conscious.

Francis remained silent for a moment then, never one to pass up an opportunity to irritate his neighbour, said "one of your eyebrows is thicker than the other."

"What?!" Arthur exploded into a mess of paranoid scrambling, "no it is not!"

Watching in amusement as he frantically felt his forehead for a while, Francis let out a chuckle.

"I was only joking, cherie, they are fine," he lied, ready to make the same comment again in a few years when Arthur had forgotten about it, as he did every decade or so. He was shot a nasty glare in return but it never failed to be funny.

"Damn frog," the unevenly eyebrowed man grumbled under his breath, not minding so much as it gave him incentive to get his own back. The perfect excuse.

As they walked the darkening streets to Francis' home, Arthur didn't pay much mind to the conversation they shared, lost in thought over times long past. He had lied earlier when they spoke of their first meeting as he often recollected his childhood, that day in particular. The image of that blue-eyed boy with his hair gold as the crown prancing through the forest like some damsel in distress would be forever engrained in his mind. Some of his fondest memories included the adolescent Frenchman, the times he had visited Britain but also the times Arthur had ventured over the channel to the peculiar world of the French court. An unlikely friendship, that was certain, but one that had withstood centuries of war, hardship and death. Not that he could admit it, but Francis had been the one constant through everything and, for that, Arthur was forever grateful.

"Are you alright?" he heard the man he was thinking of ask as he had been quiet for some time.

"Yes…of course," he replied, "just thinking."

"About a very handsome Frenchman, I am sure," Francis vainly suggested as they reached the front steps of his house.

"I know I'm creative, Francis, but I don't think my imagination can stretch quite that far," Arthur retorted in his usual dry manner.

The older man looked back, an immature pout on his lips. "You are so cruel, cherie. You never change," he complained melodramatically.

"Neither do you," the Englishman smiled warmly to himself as he entered the house after his dear friend.

* * *

I actually managed to finish this and I'm really impressed with myself, not going to lie.

Massive thankyous to everyone who has read, followed, favourited and reviewed (especially gintama200 who has consistently left some very positive and encouraging reviews that really made me happy to read) and I hope some of you will be joining me in my next upload as writing this has really spurred me on and I have a few things I am planning at the moment. Much appreciation to you all xx


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